"You're not looking so good there, McCall," Jackson spoke.

Scott looked up at the older boy who had come to stand between him and the television, and now Scott realized that he was sitting on the couch, which was strange because he had no memory of making that trip across the room. He was also rubbing his knuckles up and down his sternum, like he'd seen his mother do when she complained of heartburn. A fire burned the length of his torso and putting pressure on it seemed like it should help, though it didn't really.

Jackson had his injured arm cradled across his chest, the white cotton sleeve encasing it contrasting with the burgundy team jersey that he'd slipped on. He also had a sneer curling his lips that combined dangerously with the spark in his blue eyes. He knew what was wrong with Scott. Hell, he was probably responsible for what was wrong.

"What did you do to me?" Scott asked. He could feel sweat beading around his hairline and on the back of his neck, dampening his hair and making it stick to his head.

"Just leveling the playing field a little," Jackson replied. "Look, McCall, it may not seem like it, but I'm doing you a favor. Again."

"W-w-what do you mean?" He was finding it hard to focus on Jackson's words. They were crowded in with the continued cheers and taunts of the boys at the foosball table and the screams of an actress on the television behind him. The sounds washed over him, pushing him under like it was the day of the full moon and not the day after.

"Face it, McCall. You may be on the team, but you're not one of us," Jackson spoke. His words stung, but Jackson seemed to be echoing Scott's own thoughts. What's worse, he could smell the sincerity behind them. Jackson meant what he was saying. "After the way you abandoned the team yesterday—"

Scott leaped to his feet, the sudden movement interrupting the older boy. "Y-y-you know what that was about," he said. "You were there. You helped me last night. Did you think that was all a joke?"

Jackson shushed him with a tight hiss. "Sit down. You're making a scene."

Scott opened his mouth to protest. He was making a scene? Before he could say anything, Jackson gave his shoulders a push. The force shouldn't have been enough to move Scott, but it was. Scott stumbled back against the couch and fell heavily into the leather covered cushions. Jackson stepped closer, leaning over Scott like he was conspiring with him rather than threatening him. His scent, one of newly turned earth, wafted over the younger boy.

The smell pulled at Scott's memory, laying bare a moment when he'd been young, helping his mom in the garden, and he'd turned over a clod of soil to find the partially decomposed head of a rabbit. That moment had been his first encounter with finding horrible things in innocuous places. He knew that whatever happened next, it was going to happen again, though he was having a hard time pinpointing what Jackson was doing to create that impression.

"Normally, tonight would be nothing more than a little blowing off of steam and a chance to formally welcome the new first liners," Jackson started. "After what you did…." He lifted one shoulder up and dropped it again as if being forced to acknowledge an inherent imbalance in the universe. "Let's just say that the team needs a chance to air their grievances."

If his thoughts weren't so muddled, Scott would have made the connection quicker. Instead, it took Jackson's thick eyebrows knitting together in exasperation, the glances he directed at teammates on the other side of the room that all seemed to say Hang on. I can't be expected to perform miracles, and the burgeoning scents of anticipation and jealousy from those teammates. He heard them continuing their joking and their games, though now their actions had lost their spontaneity and picked up a sense of requirement; they were in a holding pattern until Jackson sent the cue for them to switch activities. "Hazing?" Scott asked, finally getting it. "You're hazing me?"

Jackson shook his head. "That's such an ugly word. We're having a celebration. And if you ever want a chance of being accepted by the rest of the team, you're going to celebrate with us."

Scott drew in a deep breath and held it a moment before letting it out. Doing what Jackson wanted would be so simple. He'd suffered his share of humiliation, much of it at Jackson's command. Nothing new there. If a little formal hazing broke down the barrier between himself and the guys… But, that had been before, when anger was only a strong emotion. "I can't. Jackson, this can't happen. If you do this… if I do this…" Scott couldn't name the consequence, though he'd dreamed about it often enough. Jackson shouldn't need it named. He'd seen Scott; he knew. The chains he'd used to secure Scott to the chair in the hotel room had weighed more than both of them did together. Those same chains were thick, intended to be used in the towing of vehicles, and there had been moments after the moon took over when Scott had believed they wouldn't be strong enough to stand up to his werewolf strength.

"Here's the thing, McCall," Jackson said. He leaned in close enough to whisper in Scott's ear. "I don't believe you. The full moon was yesterday. I think that your bark is far worse than your bite."

"Push me too hard and it won't matter."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes," Scott growled. At the same time, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He had to slap his hands onto the couch to keep from tumbling over, and he was suddenly reminded of where their conversation had started. What had Jackson done to him?

"That's why I took the liberty of some precautionary measures," Jackson replied, returning to his more casual pose. He ran an appraising eye over Scott, taking in the feverish skin and sweat dampened hair. "Looks like it's working." He gave a satisfied nod and stood up. "Play along, McCall. I'm not going to promise that it won't suck because, well, mostly it will. You play nice, though, and you'll find out what it means to be first line."

Scott watched Jackson head to the back of the basement where the other guys had gathered. The cluster of teammates had given up any pretense of playing the foosball and had moved into a huddle while they waited for directions from their captain. Without warning, their heat flared up, their warmth overlaying all other visual input. Scott squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. He hadn't done that. He knew he hadn't done that, giving in to his wolf vision in public.

In the movie, footsteps are pounding through empty corridors as people ran in vain from the monster that was chasing them. Scott had been there, on both sides of that chase. He listened to the actors' running and harsh pants of terror as he tried to pull back his wolf, and pleaded with himself to not let the movie become reality. At least two fictional people got their chests ripped open before he was certain that his eyes were brown again. It was only a movie, but he could practically feel their flesh giving way beneath his teeth and claws, could hear their final cries in Stiles's voice and Allison's.

Scott was pushing things too far, risking too much. His thoughts were moving slowly and weren't connecting well, but he knew he was walking on a dangerous line and it would only take a tiny push to fall. Jackson was far too eager to supply that push. As much as he'd never wanted to be here, now that he was, he needed to stay. He wanted to stay. He couldn't stay. He couldn't wait to find out if his eyes would stay brown, if his hands would stay human. The acceptance of his teammates wouldn't mean much if he ripped them limb from limb first. He reluctantly forced himself to his feet and headed for the stairs. The span of beige carpet between the couch and the staircase stretched, each step seeming to create distance rather than closing it. The room didn't want him to leave. It didn't. He fought through it, even as he tried to convince himself that it would be okay, that nothing would happen if he went through with the hazing. He'd learned so much about controlling the werewolf, come so far from that first accidental wolf-out on the lacrosse field after he was bitten.

He took a step, not certain which way he was going.

His foot landed on nothing, the ground having moved from its required location. The next thing he knew, his nose was pressing into the tight weave of the carpet.

Somewhere between hitting the floor and being helped back up, Scott forgot that he had been trying to leave Jackson's party. The warm hands that appeared on his upper arms and helped guide him to his feet reminded him of why he'd come to the party in the first place. His knees kept trying to give out, and the two helpers weren't letting him fall. One of his helpers smelled of old bread and melted crayons. The other smelled of olive oil and blankets fresh from the dryer. Their heartbeats were familiar but their names escaped him. Scott instinctively leaned closer to the one who smelled like blankets, eliciting strained laughs from both the boys. He kept his head down, just in case.

"Be a good doggie and sit," Melted Crayons said, pushing Scott down. The coolness of the brick seeped up through his jeans and he wiggled against it seeking more. His action sparked another round of laughter.

"See, he likes us," Blankets added. "He's wagging his tail. Keep being a good boy. We're gonna make you do lots of tricks."

It didn't take long for his assertion to become true. In short order, someone put a collar around Scott's neck. Its tags jangled in his ear. Someone else clipped a leash to the collar and tied it to the grate inside the fireplace. The cord was nylon, and should have been easy enough for him to break.

"Are you thirsty, little doggie," someone else asked. He smelled like a sock that had spent the weekend in a school locker. "If you're thirsty, you just have to tell us. Bark once for yes and twice for no."

"You don't have to take this," a new voice said. "Be strong, Scott." This voice had a name. Scott snapped his head up, searching for the speaker and finding him off to the side, his heart pounding.

"It's OK," Scott mouthed at him, willing him to understand. He went through worse tortures every full moon. Tonight's unpleasantries at least had the possibility of a good outcome, if he could hold himself together. He vaguely remembered that there'd been a reason he hadn't wanted to try, but he couldn't recall exactly what had lead him to giving up earlier.

Danny couldn't possibly have heard him over the din of the other boys shouting and laughing. But he cocked his head as if he had, brow furrowed in confusion. His brown eyes glistened with sympathy.

A hand clapped Scott on the back of his head, knocking him forward, knocking his vision red. He started to growl, but managed to check it in time. "Bad dog," someone said. "You haven't been trained very good. Let's try this again…" The directions were repeated. Scott was too busy modulating his breathing to pay them any attention. He shouldn't be this close to shifting, and it was taking more effort than it should to keep the wolf at bay. Second, third, fourth thoughts niggled at the back of his mind.

A pair of pristine white tennis shoes appeared on the beige carpet in front of him, bringing with them the tang of determination and new earth that was Jackson. The older boy lowered himself so he was crouching in front of Scott. He grabbed Scott's chin in his hand.

Scott clenched his fists, feeling the sharp points of his budding claws cutting into the meat of his hand, and brought his head up just high enough that Jackson could see his golden eyes through the black curls that had fallen over his face.

"That didn't take long," Jackson commented. "Good boy." He punctuated his comment with a light, deprecating pat on Scott's head.

This time, Scott didn't try to constrain the growl. His lip curled up at the corner and he felt the pressure in his gums of his canines trying to bud.

Jackson leaned closer, his breath gusting warm across Scott's face. It reeked of beer and jealousy. "Stop being so sensitive. Shouldn't you be used to a few dog jokes by now?" Growing a little contemplative, he added, "I'll bet Stilinski has cracked every single one he can think of. He seems to have a lot of jokes in his repertoire."

Scott shook his head, frustrated at Jackson's refusal to understand, more frustrated at his inability to explain. "It's not the jokes."

"Face it, McCall," Jackson breathed. "You brought this on yourself. If you hadn't—" He cut himself off with a click of his teeth.

"Hadn't what?" Scott demanded. Jackson drew a deep breath and forced it back out, as if that should be answer enough. Despite the sensory disturbances, Scott didn't miss Jackson's eyes flick to his injured arm before returning, harder, to bore into him. Jackson seemed to have thoughts of his own that he wanted Scott to guess, ones he had no inclination to spell out. Instead, he patted Scott's head again, though this time the touch was harder, more like a shove. The last thing Scott should have been doing was looking away, yet he had to in order to keep the glow in his eyes from showing.

"They're going to find out," Scott hissed, the statement a combination of reprimand and concern.

Jackson's mouth quirked, as if he were trying to not to smile. "Them?" he asked. He didn't point to the other guys or indicate them in any way, but there was no question about whom he referred to. They were arranged behind Jackson, in a half-circle several steps back. For once, Scott was grateful for the noise level in the basement as he knew they couldn't overhear the discussion taking place. "They're too drunk to remember anything or to take anything they do remember seriously," Jackson continued. "That's what the movies are for. You see, McCall, I thought of everything."

Suddenly Jackson rocked back, slapping his hands on his knees, as if he'd reached some kind of conclusion. "But … it never hurts to take extra precautions." He waved a hand and Scott heard a familiar clanking. Cool metal pressed around Scott's right wrist. He didn't dare turn to look, didn't dare raise his eyes, yet was still able to glimpse the other end of the cuff get secured to the heavy fire irons inside the fireplace. He tugged at the cuffs and heard a disturbing scrape of metal being yanked across masonry. Jackson thought this would be enough to hold him?

"Be a good dog," Mike chortled, his laugh too close to Scott's ear. The metal clicked shut, pinching Scott's wrist. "We're just getting started."

Scott growled again softly, knowing that he should have trusted his instincts about coming to this party, about staying. He hadn't, and now he was trapped. He rattled the handcuff, testing its strength. Bubbles of bitter laughter rose up from the onlookers and the air flared with their tainted scent of revenge.