I HAVE NOT PROOF READ THIS! I've just gotten sick of it being unfinished and just want it posted so I can move on to more exciting and overall better writing because honestly I wrote this chapter like 6 months ago and I'd like to think that I've improved even a little since then.
Please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of it's characters
"So, can you go over it one more time? Please, Stiles?" I smile childishly at the webcam, hoping that if I put on some girly charm into my plea that he might not fall asleep on me.
It's around one o'clock in the morning and Stiles has been trying to explain to me all of what they know about the weird crap going on in Beacon Hills. The only light in my room was the computer screen, which showed Stiles lounging on his desk chair; looking about ready to doze off; drool wetting the area around his mouth from when he fell asleep whilst I had a toilet break. On his end, he sees a girl who's wide awake and eager to understand everything; her hair is a tangled mess from where she's been playing with it whilst she though; and her off-white pyjama top is splattered with coffee stains. We both look wrecked, but we don't really care.
"One more time," He states, barely able to lift his hand. I grin as he holds up a picture of an old drawing of a werewolf. "Many people just go with the idea that the werewolf originates from the Greeks. Lycaon was some king that pissed off Zeus 'cause he fed the guy human flesh. Long story short, Zeus killed the dude's fifty sons and turned him into a wolf. Skip a few hundred years and the druids." Stiles replaces the wolf picture with one of some nature/human hybrid looking people, "these earth wizards, showed him how to turn back into human but only until the full moon… do you understand?"
"Yes, but-"
"Great!" He interrupts my inquires so I send him a playful scowl, "Now, from what we know, you can get turned by a bite, like Scott, or you can be born a werewolf, which is what happened to Derek."
"Yeah, yeah. I know that. Move one." I command, and this time the scowl is directed at me.
"Okay, um… Wolfsbane can poison werewolves and force them to change – which is how Laura turned from animal to human. And… I think that's it. Can I go to sleep now?" His voice falls into a whisper as his eyes begin to flutter shut.
"No!" I shout over the microphone, causing Stiles to flail in fright. He rubs his eyes, which are beginning to go red, and takes a large gulp of the coffee I forced him to make, "What about these hunters from the stories, what's up with them?"
"Oh, right, yeah!" He hits his forehead with his palm. "Allison's dad tried to kill Scott."
"What?" My mouth falls open in shock. But I shouldn't be too surprised, I say to myself, the guy makes guns for a living. "How did you not think to tell me something like this?"
Stiles just shrugs his shoulders and spins his chair around in boredom.
"Yeah, he shot Scott with a crossbow so watch out for that one."
"What out for that one," I mimic in his eternally sarcastic voice, causing his to give me a sarcastic 'ha-ha. Very funny'. "Stiles, I drove in a car with that guy and you're only just telling me that he's a werewolf killing, crossbow firing, and gun making psychopath? Thanks for the heads up."
"No problem, Rome. Anything else? Or are you going to release me so that I can get my beauty sleep?" Sighing, I drop the pen I was holding and lean back, starting to feel the caffeine wear off.
"Yeah, I suppose…" He pumps his fist in the air, biting his lip to keep the victory cry from waking up his dad, "But first," Groaning, his hand slowly falls in defeat as he rolls his head in exhaustion, "What are we going to do about Derek?"
Stiles' hands run from the back of his head and down to his face, "I-I don't know… Scott hasn't seen him or heard from him but I doubt that he's over the whole throwing-him-in-jail thing"
"Technically, he doesn't know that I was an accomplice in that so I'm hoping that doesn't rip out my eyes like he's going to rip out yours."
"Oh, great. Now I'm going to have nightmares."
"At least you don't have to get up in five hours…" I place a finger on my chin and look at him with laughter in my eyes, "Oh no wait, you do! Have fun with that."
"So do you!"
"Yes, but I'm used to running on three hours sleep: it's from the years of saying up all night to watch movies." A smirk graces his tired face and he laughs at the joke he's not yet said.
"Well it could be worse. I could be running around on all fours, eating squirrels and chasing cats like Scott."
My laugh turns into a yawn and Stiles catches it, in turn yawing himself.
"Okay, well, I think its bedtime."
"Finally." He scoots his chair closer to the screen so that he can turn it off.
"Oh, and Siles," Rolling his head in slight annoyance he looks at me through hooded eyes, "I'm getting my car back in a few days but I still need a ride and Allison is busy so-"
"Yeah, sure. I'll pick you up at seven." Surprised that he agreed so quickly, I smile.
"I owe you one. Sweet dreams, Stilinski."
"Sweet dreams, Ziel."
…
"Rome!" Spinning around, I see Allison's perfect head bobbing through the crowded hallway. Waving, I adjust the strap on my satchel as I wait for her to catch up.
"How's it going?" I ask as she comes to walk next to me as we head towards the main corridor of the school.
"Haven't you heard?" An excited smile replaces her usual one and she holds my arm, shocked that I'm unaware of the latest Beacon Hills gossip. My eyebrow raise is my response, he lips shut as she gives me a knowing look. "One of the school buses is covered in blood! The back door ripped off by some animal."
"Jesus," I curse, astonished, "do they… do they know what did it?" Sounds of snarling werewolves and screaming girls reach my eyes as I try to pay out what must've happened in my mind – now I know about werewolves, I will never be able to rationally explain an incident without having doubts.
"We don't know yet. But most are saying that it was some kind of wolf or something…"
I look around cautiously, expecting to see Derek or – God forbid – Scott running round with shredded clothes and a snout full of raw flesh. Upon seeing no supernatural teenage boys running around shirtless, I turn back to Allison with a faux-confident smile.
"I'm sure it's just a freak mountain lion eating a deer or something. And anyway," I diverge the subject, a playful smirk creeping onto my lips, "I want to talk about you and a certain lacrosse player." The girl goes red and looks to her feet in embarrassment. I can't help but feel happy for them both – despite still not being able to look at them flirt whilst keeping a straight face.
"Oh, you know…"
"No I don't," I remark, laughing, "My last boyfriend was in first grade. His name was George Snooten and the relationship was based on giving one another worms and mud pies.
A wistful look sparkles in her eyes, "I really like him, Rome," she hugs her textbooks to her chest, "like, really like him."
"Well, I'm happy for you both. At least one of us is getting some action." I joke, winking and making her giggle.
"I could help with that, you know." I shudder at the thought: I am so far from ready to have a boyfriend. Hell, I've only just made friends. "Lydia's been so nice introducing me to all of her friends. And that includes some cute guys…?"
"I'd rather slam my tongue in a car door than shove it down some lacrosse player's throat but thanks anyway."
She makes a show of trying to change my mind, I'm just thankful that she completely drops the conversation when her books go flying on impact with a stressed looking Scott. If it's even possible, her smile brightens.
"You scared the Hell out of me." She scolds, bending down to collect her stuff.
"You're okay?" Scott looks as though he could cry from relief, his chest pumping up and down as he takes large, calming breaths. I give him a questioning look and he returns with one that says, 'We'll talk later'.
"Once my heart starts beating again, yeah." He also crouches to help her as I just look at the scene, which reminds me of a cliché teen movie. Like always. "What?" She asks, also noticing the weird expression on his face.
"I'm just happy to see you." Smooth, I sing in my head, trying my best to not burst out laughing. What helps is the principles voice sounding from the intercom.
"Attention students, this is your principle. I know you're all wondering about the incident that occurred last night to one of our buses. But whilst the police work to determine what happened, classes will proceed as scheduled."
A chorus of groans fills the school, including my own, as all of the students start to begrudgingly walk to their classes.
"Save me a seat at lunch?" Allison rubs his head as though he was a child and walks off, leaving a very pleased looking werewolf staring at her exit.
"Come on, lover boy," I grab his arm, chuckling as I drag him towards our class, "we can't be late for the joy that is chemistry."
When we walk past the row of lockers a loud bang catches out attention. E both look to see Jackson trying to put his crushed locker back into its place with extreme failure.
"Lemme guess," I whisper, not being able to help the amused grin, "you had something to do with that."
The beefy lacrosse player notices and sends us a threatening scowl, "What are you freaks looking at?"
Scott just turns to me with a tight-lipped grin that barely conceals his laughter, and just shrugs, beginning to walk away, which answers my question. Shaking my head, I follow him into chemistry class, taking the seat opposite to Stiles.
"Stiles… Stiles!" I cry, slamming my books on the able to gain his lost attention. He almost falls off his seat in fright: too busy staring at Lydia to notice Scott and I walk in.
"Oh, Jesus," He gasps, holding his heart theatrically, "don't scare me like that."
"I'm sorry." I reply, sarcasm thick on my tongue, knowing smirk on my face. "Long night?"
"You know, you're just the ideal morning person, aren't you?" Laughing, I open my textbook to a heavily annotated page on beta particles. "But, from the looks of it, my best friend might be a murderer and I need to keep someone around as a witness." He mutters, quiet enough that only we are able to hear, as he warily eyes Scott.
"Wait, murderer? Is this about the bus? Do you know what happened? Did Scott do it? What about the-"
"Romey…" Scolds Stiles, who raises his eyebrows in disapproval, "What did we talk about last night?"
"One question at a time." I repeat the mantra glumly, rolling my eyes. Knowing that that was all the apology he was going to get, he leans forward, taking his voice down to a whisper.
"Scott had a dream about Allison last night-"
"Actually, on second thoughts, I don't want to know. In fact, I don't even want to think about the kinds of dreams that Scott has about Allison."
"No, it's not like that." He sighs, a hint of a blush powdering his freckled cheeks. "He had a dream about ripping her into little, tiny, bloody pieces at the back of the school bus."
Putting two and two together, I understand why Scott looked so freaked out earlier before he saw Allison: the poor guy must've thought that he killed her. But if it really did happen and yet Allison was alive then who did Scott kill – I mean, attack. I open my mouth to ask Stiles another one of my endless questions when the infamous Mr Harris walks into the room, bringing with him all the bad things in the world. My upper lip subconsciously lifts into a scowl. The guy was a bully and I'm surprised the school even lets that dictator near kids. The room quiets and the students begin to copy down what he's writing on the board. The sound of chalk scratching the surface means that nobody makes a sound… unless you're Stiles and Scott, who turn to face each other whilst Harris' back is turned.
"Maybe it was my blood on the door." Theorizes Scott, trying to convince himself that he did no harm.
"It could've been animal blood?" Adds in Stiles, who squints in thought.
"Or maybe you just didn't kill anything?" I butt in, leaning into to their secret conversation.
Stiles acknowledges me by shrugging his shoulders and nodding. "Or there's that. Maybe you caught a rabbit or something?"
"And did what?" Stiles asks, clearly baffled at what a wolf could possibly do with a rabbit.
"Ate it." Stiles replies bluntly, he too debating the IQ of his friend.
"Raw?"
"No. You stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven." The sarcasm makes me snort into the back of my hand. Unfortunately, it was loud enough to alert Harris of the conversation.
"Mr Stilinski," The self-righteous prick has his hands on his waist and is acting as if he's made out of gold, "if that's your idea of a hushed whisper you might wanna pull the headphones out every once in a while." Unidentifiable sounds come out of Stiles' mouth as he tries to think up an appropriate response, "I think that you and Mr McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?"
"No!" Stiles replies immediately, looking genuinely distraught over the idea. I shove my face into my arm to hide my splutter of laughter.
Ignoring him, Harris indicates their new seats and the boys unhappily slink over to their new seats, the distance already having a physical effect on them.
"Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much. And Miss Ziel?" I look up, meeting the teacher's eyes, "don't make bad choices on whom you choose to associate with." Giving him a salute, I shift to focus on my open textbook.
Only managing to get onto the second ionic bonding chapter, the lesson is once again disrupted – this time by a girl from the front of the class.
"Hey, I think I found something!" The girl exclaims, running to the window. Chairs screech back as we all gather by the wall length windows and watch as a gurney is pushed towards a waiting ambulance in the school's parking lot. It's a bit too far to see clearly but I know for definite that the form on the bed it not a small, fluffy bunny.
"Guys," Scott whispers, eyes flickering between me and the inquisitive Stiles, who carries on staring outside, "that's definitely not a rabbit."
Suddenly, making every single person in the class jump (and a few of us scream) the body sits up, flailing his arms and legs like a man possessed. The old man's screams can be heard from inside of the class room and are crazed and sound just as frightened as the rest of us.
When Scott begins to back away, I come to stand next to him, my hand pressing against his back so that he'd halt, "Scott, you need to relax. We still don't know if you had any part in what happened. You said it yourself, it was just a dream..." Stiles head tilts as he gives me an, 'Oh really?' look.
"Well, your dream came true. Who's to say his won't?" He exclaims, laughing nervously.
"Not helping!" I hiss through clenched teeth, nodding to Scott who is staring off into ace, frightened out of his mind.
"This is good, this is good." Stiles tries again, getting my message and putting a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder, "He got up, and he's not dead! Dead guys can't do that,"
"But Stiles… I did that."
…
By lunchtime, Stiles and I had made no progress in convincing Scott that he didn't violently murder someone. Instead, the werewolf was convinced that the only help he could get was from Derek. Phsycho-wolf, intense and estranged Derek. Our food was left uneaten on the trays in front of us as we all leaned forward to make a secluded triangle - I was sitting next to Stiles so that we could effectively gang up on Scott.
"What even makes you so sure that Derek has all the answers?" Stiles questions.
"Yeah, and what makes you so sure that he isn't just going to tear you in half and bury you next to his porch?" I add, throwing a carrot stick at him to effectively get my point across – though carrot sticks really have nothing to do with attacking an old man in a school bus.
"Because, Romey, he wants me alive otherwise he wouldn't have turned me in the first place… and during the full moon he wasn't changed, he was in total control whilst I was running around in the middle of the night, attacking some innocent guy!"
"Jesus, how many times? You don't know that you were the one that attacked him!" Another carrot stick flies in his face, but he continues to act as though nothing had touched him.
"I have to agree with her, Scott. We don't know what you did last night."
"I don't not know it." He looks down, his face becoming forlorn and disparaged. "I can't go out with Allison."
Groaning, I lean back in my seat, throwing my head to the sky. "Scott, don't you get it? Allison makes you calm!" The boys look at me as though I'm crazy. "I saw it with my own eyes. This morning you were erratic, you ripped Jackson's locker apart, but one look at Allison's perfectly shaped skull made your little werewolf alter-ego go back into hibernation."
"Oh, are we talking about biology homework?" A tray unexpectedly plops down next to Scott's and we look up to see the glorious red-headed, Lydia Martin bless us with her presence. I nudge Stiles, who tears his eyes away from his love long enough to catch my thoroughly confused look.
"Why is she sitting with us?" I whisper, "I don't think she even knows my name. And I'm sorry to say it but I don't thinks she knows yours either." Scott and Stiles are unable to answer and just stare (though I do feel Stilinski's elbow ram into my stomach), as the entourage – that is Lydia's posse – sits at our table, one by one.
Allison takes the nearest seat next to Scott, who looks close to pulling out the chair for her and passing her a wine list. Jackson is the last to arrive, ordering some jock out of the chair at the head of the table.
"How come you never ask Danny to get up?" The tag-along whines, making me cringe in second-hand embarrassment.
"Because I don't stare at his girlfriend's coin-slot." Danny defends himself, making Lydia girlishly giggle.
The atmosphere at the table is intense and overwhelming – I hadn't been so close to this many people since I was at Lydia's party and we all know how that turned out. Preparing to back out and just eat my sandwich in the toilet, I begin to scrape my chair back, only to feel a hand wrap tightly around my wrist. I look up to see Stiles staring me down, threatening to raise Hell if I left him alone with these culture vultures.
"Romey, no," He hisses, "don't you dare." Fearing that he'd follow me all the way into the cubicle, I awkwardly slide my chair back into its previous position. He releases me and leans back, trying to act casually cool. It doesn't work.
"So I hear they're saying that it's some kind of animal attack," Danny starts off the conversation, "probably cougar?"
"I heard mountain lion." Jackson states, earning a look from his girlfriend as she confidently corrects him.
"A cougar is a mountain lion." My mouth forms an 'o', eyes flickering between the jock who needs constant recognition that he's the best and his girlfriend that doesn't want him to know that she's better. Realising her mistake. She pretends to be confused, her voice imitating a dumb blonde, "Isn't it?"
"Who cares?" the heart-warming reply from Jackson makes me wonder why he doesn't do any charity work. Rolling my eyes, I begin to tear the label off my water bottle – hoping for a distraction. "The guys probably some homeless bum who's going to die anyway."
"Actually, I just found out who it is." Stiles butts in. I hadn't realised that he's checked the news for the incident. "Check it out." He holds the screen back so that we can all see. I lean into him, feeling the proximity and not liking the woodsy fabric softener smell that warms my nose. I pretend not to notice the closeness and watch the video clip like everyone else.
The news reader opens up with the police department's discretion surrounding the incident and eventually leads onto the identity of the victim, Garrison Meyers, who's at the hospital in critical condition. The name doesn't ring any bells for anyone watching, apart from Scott who snatches the phone out of Stiles' hand to stare at the picture of Meyers displayed on the screen.
"I know this guy," He stutters, his comment met with questioning looks, urging him to carry on. "Yeah, back when I used to take the bus when I lived with my dad. He was the driver." Scott suddenly looks up, eyes meeting Stiles and I with starling ferocity. Realisation hits me – Scott knew him, which is evidence that he could've attacked him. Now, I can picture it; Scott, whilst in wolf form, catches onto a familiar scent and follows it; turns out it's the bus driver who freaks out when he sees glowing eyes and fangs; scared, Scott attacks on instinct, clawing at Meyers' face and tearing into his ankles; Scott wakes up the next morning with no memory of what happened; Garrison Meyers wakes up close to death and screaming for help. My eyes shut tightly for a second when I see his face in my mind, pained and afraid.
Scott looks back at the phone screen, eyebrows furrowed. Stiles' knee begins to bounce up and down as his mind begins to reduce the speculations into truths. I myself am thoroughly confused and I know just the thing to do.
Throwing my leather satchel around my torso, I go to stand, not bothering to listen to the conversation the group is having about something as irrelevant as bowling.
"Hey, Rome, where you going?" Asks Stiles, who automatically searches my face for the answers that he's yet to find.
"There's forty minutes left of lunch and I'm not hungry, so I'm gonna go for a run."
He nods in understanding, by now knowing that I run when I need to clear my head. He turns back to the others and I walk off towards the changing room, no able to shake Garrison's screams from my mind.
…
"What's up, Doc?"
"Don't call me that."
Bobby's monotonous voice mixes in with the familiar sounds that Beacon Hill's Memorial never fails to make on a regular basis; the endless ringing of telephones; the chorus of heart monitors; the soft conversations between doctors and nurses; and, of course, the rotation of wheels as hospital equipment is moves and emergency gurneys come rushing in.
Smirking, I take one of the complimentary eclairs out of the small glass bowl on the receptionist's desk. Chewing on the caramel flavoured goodness, my eyes find the reporters milling around outside the front of the building. "Why is the whole of Channel 5 News stalking outside the hospital?"
The clicking of the keyboard carries on whilst Bobby types and talks at the same time, "You know that guy that was attacked at your school?" I nod, the wrapper crinkling under my fingertips as I fold it, "He's being treated here, in the ICU. But between you and me, I don't think the old bugger is going to make it. There was practically nothing left of him when he was brought in."
My thoughts turn to Garrison, who's lying helpless in a hospital bed, probably clinging desperately to what health he has left. He has to be afraid as well, most likely believing that the next person to walk through his door is there to finish him off.
"What room is he in?" Signing my name in the visitor's book, I look up to a disbelieving and amused expression.
"If you think that I'm going to tell you that then you're crazy. I may not have taken my Hippocratic Oath but that doesn't mean I want your disease ridden, teenage hands prodding the poor guy's wounds." Scoffing, I give him the most innocent look that I can muster. From his face, it must be an ugly one. "Go see your brother, Romey, before I tell the head of security that you've been the one stealing food from the vending machines."
Despite giving him a departing scowl, I head up to the ICU without arguing with Bobby about who can get who into the most trouble. I purposefully slow down when I pass some of the rooms, peaking at the patient folders outside of the doors, in hopes of finding the name that I'm looking for. I have no luck and just decide to be content with second-hand information.
"Hey, loser. Did ya' miss me?" Freddie hasn't moved an inch from my last visit but I notice his sheets are changed and his face is shaved: they seem to shave his face every day, which is remarkably efficient, but something I don't dwell on as I'm just thankful that I don't have to kiss a stubbly cheek.
I take my usual seat, pulling out his annotated coy of Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Tell-Tale Heart. However, I don't immediately open it to the first page. Alternatively, I place it on my lap before grabbing Freddie's hand.
"Do you dream?" It was a question I'd been dying to know the answer to for a very long time but I'd never really had a reason to until now. "Or do you just listen? The doctors told me that coma patients can hear." A few nurses stop outside of his door to check his file, I wait for them to leave before I carry on. "I was thinking about it today… something weird happened to my friend and I was thinking about it." Scott's image flashes across my vision and I think about how difficult this must be for him: not knowing whether or not he's a killer. "Have any of your dreams come true? And I don't mean dreams as in aspirations, I mean dreams." I stare at his partially open mouth, waiting for a whisper or even the mouthing of a single letter. But the tube that helps him to breathe is the only thing that has left his mouth in two years.
Letting out a heavy breath, I lean back in my chair, still holding onto his hand. Its times like these when I wonder why I do this to myself, but then I realise that pitying myself is pathetic and selfish and I remember that my brother needs this, despite whether or not he can hear my voice.
I open up the book that's been waiting patiently to be appreciated, and read out the highlighted line as I absentmindedly open Freddie's palm and trace a continuous circle on it with my forefinger.
"The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them," I read directly from the age-stained page, "Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in Heaven and in the Earth. I heard many things in Hell." I pause for a moment, my voice cracking as I think about Freddie, no longer dreaming, but being plagued by nightmares. I carry on, my finger still drawing the endless path. "How then, am I mad-"
Before I can finish, my reading is interrupted with loud yells for help that echo down the corridor. Dropping the book. I run after the nurses that all head towards the door at the end of the unit. I stop in my tracks when I see Scott being shoved out of the room, terror shown clearly on his face. I call his name, taking his attention. He walks up to me, his hands restless and his eyes darting around.
"Scott, what the Hell just happened?" My brows are pulled together, my hand wanting to reach out and comfort him but afraid that he might rip it off – he looks agitated enough to do it.
"I-I-It was the driver. The driver I attacked-"
"-You think you attacked." I correct, even though I know that he won't listen.
"H-He just didn't stop screaming." Scot suddenly zones out, his chest heaving as his eyes are lost in thought. All too quickly his head whips towards me, "Romey, I need to speak to Derek. I need to go now."
Knowing that he was too paranoid to be swayed out of this reckless decision, I just nod, "Just… be careful. Please," I beg, pressing my hands together in prayer, "I don't want to go running tomorrow and find your body okay?" He nods, giving me a small smile in hopes of calming my nerves – or maybe his – before running off.
Seeing no other reason to be outside, I slink back into Freddie's room, picking up the book from where I there it and sitting back down.
"You know the friend mentioned earlier," I whisper, flipping back to the page I was on, "Yeah, I think he's getting worse."
The story is short, only a few pages long, so I reread it in order to spend as much time here as possible. After the second reading I can feel my eyes become heavy. It's only for a few minutes, I reassure myself, stretching out a yawn. Dozing off, my hands falls limply onto Freddie's open palm and I sink into a lucid nap.
Warmth spreads through my body as I drift from the hospital to a clear depiction of my home. The fire is blazing in the living room, so it must be winter. If I was to look around the corner and into the dining room I would probably see the Christmas tree standing proudly and a bowl full of winter fruits sitting invitingly on the table. A sweet, toasty aroma fills my senses as the smell of spiced toast and cinnamon buns wafts from the kitchen. My family has always been big on Christmas; the wholesome gathering of the extended family, sipping on eggnog and sharing he years stories; the chilled, crisp air that covers us like a blanket as we build snowmen and make snow angels; and decorating the house with berries and colours that make you smile and light candles that I will always remember as accompanying pure happiness. All that mushy goodness that you'd see in an ad for 'The Great American Home Store'. There is no denying that the Ziel family is big on winter.
"Hey, Kid. Think fast." Hearing the voice I spin to face it but instead of seeing the backend of my living room I'm transported to the forest of Beacon Hills where the snow covers the floor like dirt does a grave. I'm barely able to dodge the fast flying snowball that is aimed straight at my head.
Laughter fills the air as I squeal, ducking and landing on my back, feeling the ice beneath me begin to melt and seep into my wool jumper. A grin spreads across my face when I look to my attacker, who trudges over to give me a hand.
"Nice aim, loser. But you weren't quick enough." I smirk, brushing the snow of my jeans.
Freddie rubs his chin, trying to look serious but failing miserably. I've forgotten how small he is – he can't be much taller than Stiles – but in my brother's case, height doesn't really matter. He's in his hospital gown, his chin as smooth as it is back in the real world but his shaggy brown hair exactly the same as it's always been: a mess. There's no denying that we look alike with our large blue eyes, pale skin and brunette locks, but it's not just looks that makes us siblings.
"Wipe that look off of your face, Rome. At least I'm better than you."
"Wanna bet?" My hands go to my waist in challenge and he nods. "Prepare for war brother."
With a startling battle cry he charges, tackling me from my shoulders and pushing me into the snow before I can even move. I laugh along, swinging my fists blindly so that he'd shove off. When Fred let's up, we're at the gun range our grandpa used to take us to when we were living back in Oklahoma. Everything here smells like nicotine and whiskey but I'm used to it. The indoor range is definitely not professional standard but the hunting rifles and cheap pistols will do.
"Seeing as you're the youngest, you get first pick." Freddie stands in the front of the wall of guns located behind the sign-in counter. It's just the two of us here, so no receptionist in necessary.
Biting my lip, I survey my limited choice, finally deciding on a 410, 28", single shot break-open shotgun: it's cheap but I love the feel of the wooden butt and stocks. Freddie goes for a .22 revolver that looks as though it came straight out of a cowboy movie.
"What are you smiling at?" He asks when he catches me grinning, "It's like the gun the George uses in-"
"Of Mice and Men, I know… you're just predictable is all." Laughing, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and manoeuvres me towards the targets, muttering something that I can't make out but I'm sure it's rude.
We take our places at our respective booths and put on the protective gear laid out for us.
"So how are we doing this?" I raise the gun in the position I was taught, trigger hand aligned with my armpit, the other gripping the forestock. My chin is wedged in between the stock and the safety as I line it up with the fresh target forty meters away.
"First one to get three in the bull's-eye, alternating shots. You go first." Freddie's voice carries from the other side of the barrier that secludes the shooters. Going first means that even though my brother is the superior gunman, I had a chance of winning.
Taking a deep breath, I take the weight of the gun before I make my shot. The skills I have learnt come back naturally and I pull the trigger with confidence, not even feeling the recoil. I blink out of concentration, already knowing that I've got the bullet within the gold circle albeit close to the edge.
"Not bad for someone who hasn't picked up a gun in years." My brother remarks, his head coming around the separation to watch my pump the forestock and put the safety back on. "Why is that by the way?"
I scoff, acting nonchalant but feeling weird, "You're starting to sound like my guidance counsellor."
A worried crease forms between his brows, "You're seeing a guidance counsellor?"
I only shrug, trying to play it off, not liking how uncomfortable I am with where this conversation is headed. But then I remember that I's a dream and I'm all good.
"Of course I am. I mean, my brother got shot in the head and I'm the one that notified the authorities about how you were slowly bleeding out in the middle of nowhere. They still don't know how I knew that. They're going with the assumption that we'd been in contact at the time but it was never confirmed. Nor is it true." The actual truth is that I'd dreamt all of it, which is crazy, but I refused to let it go until they had checked it out. And it turns out my dream – or nightmare – was real. "Now shoot."
At my order he turns back. BANG. Freddie doesn't even have to think before shooting straight away, the bullet sailing through the centre with a satisfying whistle.
"Show off." I mutter, mimicking him and going straight for my next go. My first shot is repeated, which shows a consistent technique but my aim is still a little off.
"You're out of practice."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious."
"No, I'm serious. You're turning 18 in a couple of years and you've always said how much you want your own rifle." BANG. Freddie's second shot.
"You make me sound like some gun crazed, trigger happy red-neck. And besides, I've changed my mind – I no longer dream about owning military grade weapons." That much.
"Our family does have a pretty interesting military history but not so long ago you wanted to be a front line soldier."
"Freddie, I can barely survive high school let alone a war." I take aim and fire, hissing when the bullet hole borderlines that bullseye.
"Definitely not with that form. Do you remember what I taught you?" Sighing, I take off the goggles and the headphones, jumping up to sit on the bench. Freddie drops his gun too, coming round to stand in front of me, the hospital dress is no longer amusing. "Let's change the subject. How's school?"
"Fine." I reply bluntly, no longer in the mood for hearty conversation.
"Made any friends yet?"
"I suppose I've made a few."
Fred's lips twitch up in a smile, "About time… what are they like?"
"They're fine," I repeat, "but Fred-Freddie… when are you coming home?" My voice has lowered considerably in volume, the question coming out mousy and choked.
"Soon." He whispers, taking my hand, "I promise. Just do me one favour – is that okay, Kid?"
"If it means you'll come back I'll do anything." And I meant it, even though I knew deep down that his was a dream. I'd kill if it meant that my brother woke up again.
"I want you to go see a friend of mine, someone I me when I was in action. Tell him my name and he'll give you a few pointers." He nods to the gun so that I understand what he means although confusion and apprehension still settles uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. "His name is Chris Argent."
…
A hand grips my shoulder, shaking it with an increasing force. I groan, trying to bat the hand way but it's relentless. My eyes start to pry open, as my hearing stats to register the sounds around me.
"Miss… excuse me, Miss?" I find the face of a slightly annoyed nurse staring down at me, holding a pile of sheets in one hand and my shoulder in the other. "Are you alright?" Waving her attention away sharply, I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth.
"Yes. Yeah I'm fine. I just dozed off for a minute." My arms automatically lift into a stretch and the bones in my back clicking back into place, eliciting a euphoric groan from my lips. Rubbing my eyes, I look at the closed blinds, "What time is it?"
"It's six." She replies, beginning to pull my brother's sheets back.
"In the evening?" I'd slept for two hours? That doesn't seem right: it felt like half of that time had passed.
"No, in the morning." Suddenly, I'm wide awake.
"Are you freaking kidding me?" I cry, leaping to get my phone from my bag, relieved to see that it still has charged but the feeling is automatically replaced when I notice the unread messages and missed calls. "Crap, crap, crap." I mutter as I throw on my sweater and pack the discarded book away. "Bye, loser." I say, kissing my brother on the head and not taking notice of the disapproving look that the nurse gives me for the questionable nickname.
I can't believe I've slept for fourteen hours, my mind races as I try to make sense of what just went down, how the Hell did that happen? Once I get outside, where I can confirm that it is in fact the morning, I push my hair into a ponytail and look at my phone.
There's a horrifyingly large batch of angry looking messages from my parents, all asking for my location and for me to call them.
Then there's one from Allison, who asks if I can come round later today to help her get ready for her group date.
And then there's a few from Stiles;
Scott spoke to Derek. Going to the school, do you wanna come?
Good news! Scott isn't our killer, he's just another average teenage werewolf.
Hey, are you okay? You haven't replied and Allison said your parents were asking about where you were.
Shit. Actually, no. Double shit. My parents were breaking out the big guns, forming search parties, they probably have signs with my face on them already nailed to trees. Oh God, they're going to be so pissed, even after I explain.
And I only just got my car back.
…
So, I was grounded.
Despite my reasons for being late and notifying my parents of my whereabouts being totally innocent and legal, my parents have acted as though I'd passed out in a field full of nudists with a used needle stuck in my arm. I couldn't really blame them for worrying about me though, especially when they were already nervous from the animal attacks and all. But looking at it in a positive light, there was already a police enforced curfew, so I couldn't go out anyway, and they still gave me my beautiful car back – so I didn't argue with them, instead choosing to just go up to my bedroom and do the mountain of homework that had been neglected in light of recent supernatural revelations.
I lie on my bed, some loose, unflattering pyjamas being covered by Axel's fur who sprawls across me, his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him. My glasses balance at the end of my nose as I try to revise Pearl Harbour but am distracted by the pouty whines of my German Sheppard who demands affection. I methodically stroke my way from his head to his tail, more concentrated on the feel of his fur than the school work in front of me. This is partly because Axel's coat is so soft and partly because every time I read a fact about historical events or scientific proofs, I can't help but wonder how scientists have dismissed sightings of freaking man/wolf hybrids running around but are still convinced that aliens are real (I mean, there is an infinite number of possibilities of werewolves, let alone anything else that could be out there). And how many famous events in history are defined or caused my super humans? The point I'm trying to make is that I don't know how I can learn facts if I don't know how true they are… for all I know Wolfgang Kapp really was a wolf.
Every time I turned a few pages of my history textbook my phone would chime with texts from Scott, Allison, and Stiles; all wondering how I was and all wanting me to listen to their ramblings (as the unwillingly appointed neutral third party of our new-born friendship group). Allison still remained to be worried about what to wear for her group date. Scott was also worried about what to wear for his group date – as though this is his biggest issue at the moment. And Stiles wanted to pitch his theories to me on the school bus attack to someone other than his reflection. I reply to all three in short responses, still not used to the fact that there are people in my life that I have to socialise with besides my parents, but the messages gradually become less frequent and the words on my textbook's pages become more blurred as my eyes begin to tire. Finally resigning, I push the books aside and adjust my bed's pillows so that I can lie back and not disturb Axel, who's finally managed to fall asleep.
Staring up at the sticky stars on my ceiling – which I will forever refuse to take down – everything seems to slow down except time. My mind is finally clear enough to review the past two days, and it's all smooth until it begins to replay the hospital. At first, it was a normal visit but then I fall asleep and I know that although this isn't a shocker there is something in the back of my mind the is calling for a closer examination. I can't seem to shake the feeling that something important happened. But what?
When I mentioned how time didn't slow, I meant it. It felt as though I'd been staring at that ceiling for only minutes when in actual fact the late afternoon sun had lowered into hiding as the moon assumes its position. Blinking back into the forefront of my mind I take a stretch, disturbing the dog who groans in annoyance before shaking his tail and jumping off of the bed to most likely look for food. Smacking my dry lips, I roll over into my pillows and shuffle under my duvet, fully up for falling asleep on an empty stomach and unbrushed teeth – it was just one of those nights … and it want long before it turned into one of those nights.
For a while the house is silent and dark, and when the screen on my phone rings nine o'clock I can only assume that my folks have gone to sleep. I try to as well: I squeeze my eyes shut making the already dark room pitch black under the cover of my lids, but nothing I do can stop the aching behind my eyes. The dull thud gradually gets louder and I toss and turn, my bed suddenly feeling as if it was made of stone. Huffing and puffing, I kick the sheets of violently when the temperature increases and sweat dots my forehead. Sounds that you wouldn't normally hear bang madly on my ear drums; the boiler on the opposite side of the wall; the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallways; and Axel's heavy, tired panting as he sleeps in his bed outside of my parent's room. There tree outside my window begins to creak in the wind, it's branches tapping in infuriating repetitiveness against the glass, almost seeming to seek entrance.
Groaning, I grab a pillow and cover my ears with it, trying to quiet all the noise that is fuelling the oncoming storm of a migraine. Alas, the tapping seems to crescendo into full blown knocks. I proceed to slam my face into the mattress, screaming in an attempt to remove the racket. It only works for a few heavenly seconds until, clear as day at my window, come three, light, almost nervous taps. I swing my head towards the sound, totally ready for chopping up the tree with a wild malice. Instead, I cry out in fright as Stiles Stilinski's head presses up against the glass, waiting for me to notice him and allow entry. Jumping up, I stomp over to the window and lift it open, grabbing Stiles by his shirt and pulling him in. He lets out a cry as he lands on the floor with a painful thud. I thank the lord that my parents are heavy sleepers.
"Stiles! What in hell are you doing?" I hiss, surely looking as though I'm about to smother him with one of my discarded pillows.
He holds up his hands in surrender, "You weren't answering your phone!"
"So you broke into my house?!"
"Yeah." He says blankly, as if that was the only plausible option. Scoffing, I grab one of the pillows and hurl it at him. "AH! Mercy!"
"You do not just stare at a girl sleep, Stiles! You could have just knocked on the front door." I scold, throwing another pillow at his dumb head.
"Ow! I'm sorry, I'm just used to coming through people's windows: it makes me feel like a spy." Despite desperately wanting to crack a smile, I manage to keep a deadly serious expression. "Look, Rome, I wouldn't come if it wasn't important."
Deliberating for a second I decide to let up, collapsing into my desk chair, urging him to say what he has to as he crosses his legs on the floor in front of me. He sighs, rubbing his hands awkwardly as he prepares for what he has to say.
"Garrison Meyers, the guy that was on the school bus with Scott, he-uh-he succumbed to his wounds." I automatically lean forward, my breath escaping me as the room fills with sudden sadness.
"Oh my God."
"Yeah, and now we know that Derek is capable of-"
"Wait, you think Derek did this?" Shrugging his shoulders, Stiles looks up at me with decidedly tired eyes, sleep clearly evading his generally hyperactive mind.
"Well, we know from last night that Scott wasn't the wolf that attacked the driver. It was another werewolf… and who else do we know that runs around once a month howling at the moon and peeing on fire hydrants?"
I lean against my clasped hands as I try to make sense of what all this means. So, yes, somebody died – Laura. But it was Derek's sister and the Hunter's did that. But now that somebody else has died and the only suspect is Derek it means that we're dealing with more dangerous people than we originally imagined and shit is about to get real. Quickly.
"And-and we're sure that it was Derek who killed Garrison?" Stiles gives me a sullen nod, telling me that he's already tried to come up with every other possible solution. "Does Scott know? Where is he?"
"He ran off to find Derek." Shocked at his carelessness as a best friend, I immediately stand.
"And you let him?"
"Hey! I'd like to see you try and stop an angry teenage werewolf from making a break for it!" Seeing his point, I collapse beside him on the floor, sighing as I lean back to rest my head on the side of my bed. Stiles does the same and we sit in a comfortable silence as we wait for something to happen or a decision about what to do to be pulled out of thin air.
"So what's the next step?" I whisper, no longer feeling like shouting. Stiles' head turns towards mine and he gives me a despondent smile.
"I don't know."
With nothing else to say, our mind attempts he impossible in order to predict the future. Minutes go by before either of us move, and when we do it's just Stiles moving around to compensate his ADHD. When he settles his shoulder presses up against mine and the woodsy by clean smell enters my senses. I blame he fact that I'm hyper aware of us touching and his smell on the hormones that I'm completely not in control of.
I promise that I, as a questionably normal, naturally hormonal, and healthily curious teenage girl, am not willingly noticing the attractiveness of my preferred sex which comes as a basic human instinct in order to procreate and survive. I's not my fault that my subconscious mind notices his jawline or his eyes or his smile or other parts that correlate with what I would look for in a guy. It's a pure accident that my stupid brain is sending the wrong stupid signals to other stupid parts of my anatomy. It's all stupid.
"Romy?" My eyes move towards Stiles so that I can see him in the corner of my eye, his confused expression tells me that he's noticed my frustration. "Are you, uh, okay?"
"Yeah," I reply with false chirpiness through clenched teeth, "fine. I'm-I'm just worried about Scott."
"I wouldn't be, our Scotty can take care of himself." I can't help the genuine smile that appears at his words, our Scotty. So they are my friends. I wanna fist pump the air but remain cool and collected.
"I guess." I murmur, mostly to myself, doubting that Scott would be alright when up against an experienced werewolf that has most likely maimed and killed many people in his life.
"Are you going to be okay?" My eyebrows furrow at his out of the blue question, not entirely sure what the motive is.
"Um, sure? It's not like I'm the one being stalked by some creep with fangs. I'm pretty sure I should be asking you that question." A laugh it forced from my throat in an attempt to lighten the damp mood.
"No, but Scott told me that he saw you at the hospital yesterday and… you know, I-I assumed that-"
"Assumed that I'm what? Dying or something? I appreciate the concern Stiles but I'm fine, I was just… visiting a friend that work there." The slight manipulation of the truth flies form my lips in a rushed string as I desperately try to move the conversation away from Freddie.
"Oh-oh right." He looks down at his hands which play with each other. "So, this friend, what does she do?"
"He just works at the reception and likes me enough to let me wander around." I'm amazed at how easy I can lie – and slightly worried. "Bobby's a grumpy git but we get along." Stiles lets out a chuckle that relieves the tension slightly.
Another bout of silence blankets us, this one even more welcome than the las, so comfortable that I'm able to close my eyes and rest my head against his surprisingly muscle arm. I can feel his eyes staring at my head on his shoulder and can almost hear his mind trying to make sense of what could be his first form of intimate contact with a girl be soon he realises that he's okay with it too and rests his head atop mine.
I start to think that if this is what real friends our age do then I want to make more. What teenager in the 21st century doesn't want a little assurance that they aren't entirely alone in the world? And now I feel like a pathetic dickweed for even thinking like this: two weeks ago I literally cried over human contact and now I'm confidentially and comfortably resting my being on someone.
"I should probably go wat for Scott to get back." He says when an unknown amount of time has gone past. I breathe in and sit up, blinking my eyes ridiculously to wake them up and realising that I'd almost fallen asleep.
"Um, yeah you should do that." Standing with him, I cross my arms in an attempt to show how completely unfazed I am over tonight's events even though I'm baffled at what just happened.
"I'll call you when Scott gets back." I just nod and watch him climb onto the tree outside from my open window. "Sweet dreams, Ziel." He whispers to me before clumsily climbing onto solid ground.
"Sweet dreams, Stilinski."
