AN: Really long author's note, sorry. So it's been forever. I know. I know. I was going to update more over Winter Break, but a lot happened and I just couldn't. My grandfather was in the hospital and I had to watch my grandmother who has dementia and it required literally all my focus. But now I have a stomach virus and can't be at school.. so viola! Inspiration struck. Anyway, if you didn't see, I changed the ending to the last chapter, because it sucked and I wrote it while I was half asleep. (I would also like to point out that I am loving the second part of Season 3 because, if you can't tell by this story, I'm an angst junkie. Though I do vehemently despise the fact that they're trying to ship Isaac and Allison. No. No no no. I don't like it one bit. She's too bitchy and back-stabby for Isaac's sweetness. Plus I don't like her.)
Disclaimer: Alas, I still do not own Teen Wolf.
Warnings: Not too much in the chapter. A little blood, cursing, and some graphic imagery but nothing too terrible.
Priest faded into consciousness slowly, though as he edged closer to full awareness, his heart began to race. His senses were flooded with an onslaught of new information: the stench of anaesthetics, sickness, and disinfectants burned his nose; there were periodic and sporadic beeps from machines that seemed to be all around him; and even with them closed, the fluorescent lighting overhead burned his eyes.
He made to shift his body to inspect the damage done to him, but stopped, stifling down a whimper. Everything hurt. To him it seemed as if the entirety of his body was a raw nerve, worked over with steel wool and sandpaper. His head throbbed painfully, twinging occasionally with the noises from the equipment. With every breath he took in, his chest burst into agony, and experience told him that such pain meant broken ribs.
Little by little, he moved each part of his body, occasionally having to hold back soft sounds, to inspect what had been done to him. On his back, where he'd been shot with the arrow, he felt the pull of stitches. Further inspection revealed three more sites where skin had been sewn back together: the stab wound in his stomach, a laceration just above his right eye, and a long gash that began just above his waist and continued to midway down his hip. He almost snorted at the idea of a werewolf having stitches, but caught himself before doing so, not wanting to find out the kind of pain such an action would bring about.
In addition to the sutures, he also noticed the presence of several IVs embedded his skin. On the top of his hand, on his forearm, and even one in his neck. They weren't necessarily painful, but in their own way they alarmed him, because he knew what most IVs were for: administering medicine. If they were still giving him medicine in order to treat his injuries, then he still wasn't healing properly. The thought made him nervous, and he began wondering how long he'd been asleep, because surely his healing ability would have reestablished itself by now if it had been more than a few hours.
He attempted to open his eyes, though as he did so, he was blinded by the too bright light and flinched away. A soft groan echoed through the room as he slowly sat up. Reaching up with the hand that was free of the tubes, he pulled the IV free from his neck. He felt the warmth of blood against his skin and cursed quietly. Using the same hand, he reached toward the side table and grabbed a scrap of gauze in his fist. He put it against where the IV had formerly been and pressed down, hard, hissing softly. It didn't take too long for the bleeding to stop, and he repeated the process with the other two.
Able to move his right arm more freely, he ripped away the sticky little sensors that littered his chest and stomach. Moving gingerly, he slid his legs off the bed to sit sideways. On a chair beneath the window was a plastic bag, inside it he recognized his clothes and other belongings. He reached for it, opening the seal and splaying it's contents across the bed. He picked up the jeans, putting them over his lap. moving his belongs around, he grabbed at a silver chain, fingers brushing the pendent briefly before pulling.
It was about the size and shape of a quarter, silver and smooth. One one face of it it was an engraved cross, it's design almost celtic. On the other side the word 'Deartháir' was inscribed in small letters. He eyed it with affection that bordered on actual reverence. After a long several seconds, he finally pulled it over his head. Deciding that his shirt was done for, he left it on the bed, pulling the jacket toward him. It was black, so the bloodstains wouldn't show too much.
Shedding the gown and replacing it with his clothes was harder than Priest would ever admit to it being. By the time he had managed to dress himself, tears welled in his eyes and his breath was jagged and rough, which in turn only hurt his ribs more. Regaining control of himself, he sought the hospital's exit, making an effort not to limp and ultimately failing, though he considered the fact that he was even able to walk without crying out a victory in itself.
His attempts to remain inconspicuous seemed to have worked, because he made it downstairs and past the front desk without being spotted or stopped. As relieved at his luck he was, he didn't catch the scent of the werewolf coming at him until it was too late and he felt a hand close over the back of his neck.
He growled lowly, but, remembering where he was, he kept his head, refusing to give in to the instinct that told him to shift.. Too disoriented by a mix of pain and weakness to do much about it, he had no choice but allow himself to be pushed into a mostly deserted hallway. He finally managed to wrench himself away from the older male, though the motion made him cringe. His eyes flashed crimson as he looked the other man up and down, sizing him up despite the fact that he was in no condition for a fight. He was strong, obviously in a pack by the smell of him, a beta. Experienced.
"And what the hell do you think you're doing?" his assailant asked, his voice a curious mix of disdain and sarcastic disbelief. "Whoever did this.." he motioned vaguely to Priest's body, "obviously is good at what they do and wanted you dead. Do you think that if they find you when you're this messed up they won't kill you? Or that you'll have the strength to fight a fucking bunny off, let alone what I'm assuming are trained hunters?"
Startled by his reaction, Priest stood there, dumbfounded for what must have been at least a minute, unsure how to respond to the searing blue glare he was receiving. This was way out of the realm of usual. Mostly, packs drove him out or would simply ignore him, but it seemed as if the Hale pack, or at least this member of it anyway, actually cared if he ended up dead. Finally, he regained his sense of vocabulary.
"And you care whether I live or not, why exactly?
"Me, personally? I don't. Not really. Sorry." he deadpanned, before continuing with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But I sort of-kind of have orders to make sure you stay in this hospital, and they aren't just from my alpha, they're from someone who scares me much, much more, but that's besides the point. We don't tend to let people walk right into the jaws of death around here."
Priest wouldn't have been the least surprised if the beta had put his hands on his hips as he spoke.
He couldn't ponder on it for much longer, however, because he felt the spread of warmth on his neck, dripping down his collarbone and chest. He reached for where the IV had been earlier, and drew his hand back covered in blood. He cursed quietly as the liquid spread and increased in volume with each heartbeat. In pulling away from the Hale beta, he'd opened it up again. He pressed his thumb against the small hole, hoping to staunch the bleeding, but to no avail.
"What the hell?" The other man's voice cut through his haze of ever growing panic, because his vision was fuzzing around the edges, a symptom he knew well as one of blood loss. His hand shot out, and he groaned as it pulled at the stitches on his back, grabbing the older man's shoulder.
"You have to get me out of here." He said urgently, barely able to keep his focus on what he was saying. "I cannot stay here, do you understand me!?" His words were quiet, but they held a weight in them that he almost didn't recognize. "If you leave me here, they will come for me. They don't care how many humans the have to kill to get what they want, and right now, what they want is me." His legs shook and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he was going to black out. "I don't care if you take me and leave me in the middle of the fucking forest, just get me out of here!"
He barely had time to gasp out the word 'please' before he was enveloped by the darkness.
Priest faded into consciousness slowly. His nose wrinkled as he was assaulted with the now familiar smell of anaesthetics, soap, and sickness. For a moment, he was absolutely certain that the member of the Hale pack he'd met had taken him back to his hospital room. A loud outburst of barking soon eliminated that possibility. He groaned softly and opened his eyes, squinting against the light. What was it with people in this town and lights that were brighter than the sun?
He was laying on a metal bed in a room that reeked of animals. His jacket and necklace were gone, leaving him barechested and a little bit cold. The stitches on his back, stomach, and hip remained, but the ones above his eye had been removed, and as he reached up to inspect it, he was somewhat relieved to discover that the wound had mostly healed. Rather than discomfort, he tasked himself for identifying his surroundings.
So strong was the scent of dogs and cats that he almost didn't pick up the other ones. Almost hidden but not quite, were three others. One was a werewolf, but the other two were human. There was one older than the other two by a lot, but he was a human. One of the younger men were the werewolf, also from the Hale pack, if he wasn't mistaken.
Groaning he sat up. Around the room was scattered medical equipment and posters of animal anatomy. A vets office. He took him to a vets office. Unable to stop himself, he chuckled lowly, gasping and clutching at his side as he did so.
"Oh look, he's not dead."
He whirled toward the voice quick enough that it hurt but not so much that it was unbearable. The speaker was a young man, older than himself. He was in his mid twenties, with short, dark brown hair. His brown eyes were alight with a happy energy that reminded Priest strongly of an excitable child. Behind the first one was a second, about the same age, but a lot taller. Curly brown hair and blue eyes combined to give him the look reminiscent to that of a puppy. It was the second one who was the wolf, he decided.
"Don't get me wrong, I like to impress." he said, gesturing toward his body. "But uhm.. Where are my clothes?" he asked, standing and eyeing the pair. They both looked uneasy, which was understandable, but the curly-haired one had this look on his face of fearful understanding that was uncanny. He knew that to them it was probably grotesque the way his skin stretched tightly over his bones. They probably pitied him for the scars that littered his body - namely the large one on his back, where two very large slashes had met to create a crude cross in his flesh, the root of his nickname. We was proud of it though, as odd as that may seem. To him, each scar was a story, something his survived, and his skinniness was a reminder of how long he'd been fighting.
The shorter one shifted, looking awkward. Before he could say anything though, the blue eyed one interjected with an explanation.
"Yeah.. about that. Those are trashed. We had to cut the jacket off of you because we couldn't figure out where the bleeding was coming from. And if you wear those jeans much longer you're going to get infection in those cuts on your legs, especially that one." he motioned toward Priest's hip vaguely. "You can wear these, they should fit." He added, pressing a bundle of clothes into his hands.
"Uhh.. Thanks." Priest was disoriented. Kindness toward him from local packs was something he had virtually no experience in. He almost wished this had turned into a fight. A fight, he could handle. Go on instinct, make it up as he went, and run if all else failed. This? He had no idea how to handle this.
"No problem. I'm Isaac." the beta reached out to shake his hand, and he returned the gesture after a moment of unsure hesitation. "This is Stiles." He added, jerking his head toward the other man.
Priest fought the urge to stiffen. He knew those names. He knew them incredibly well. Isaac Lahey and Stiles Stilinski. People from the stories he'd heard for years, stories his brother would tell him in hushed tones whenever they needed to be quiet, or whenever he'd awoken from sleep after being terrorized by a nightmare. Stories he heard countless times when he was learning to control the shift, ones he came to crave.
He blinked and let his hand drop to his side limply. He picked up the shirt Isaac had handed to him, pulling it over his head. He hissed as it fell into place, but otherwise made no indication of how it had hurt him.
"How long have I been asleep?" He asked Isaac as Stiles disappeared into what he was assuming was the front office or waiting room area. Isaac looked thoughtful at the question.
"It's been about four days since you first ended up in the hospital. You only got here last night though." he said after a moment of thought, turning to straighten out some of the vials and containers that lay haphazardly on the countertop. "Didn't catch your name, by the way." He added, looking over his shoulder and catching Priest's eye.
"Just call me Priest." he answered simply.
"Oh, is that from the... ya know..?" Isaac gestured vaguely to his back, mimicking where Priest's cross-shaped scar was. The younger male shrugged noncommittally.
"Well, you're fine physically for right now. The Doc'll take another look when he gets in later today, just to make sure."
"Thanks again."
"It's not a problem."
They lapsed into comfortable silence, with the exception of the few sounds Priest made as he painstakingly changed his clothes yet again. He helped feeding the dogs with Isaac, mainly out of want of something to do, and he wasn't really sure he was actually helping at all. He got the feeling Isaac was only humoring him. The next hour ticked by painstakingly slowly.
After what seemed like an eternity, the squeak of the front door piqued Priest's interest. He almost went to go look and see if it was the Doc, the man he'd been itching to meet for years, the man who, in the past, had been very much like a second father to his brother.
As he stepped toward the door though, the voice of the visitor stopped him cold in his tracks.
"Hello. My dog got loose the other night, and I was wondering if anybody brought him in." Heart racing, Priest's eyes flashed crimson and he backed into the corner of the room, with wide, terrified eyes. A barely audible growl slipped from between his teeth. Isaac came out of the dog room and looked at him, eyes glowing yellow and flicking between the young alpha and the door. He stepped as if to make his way to investigate, but Priest growled lowly in warning, keeping him barely at bay as they listened further.
"Well, we haven't had any new admissions in the past few days, but if you give us your dogs information, we'll keep an eye out for him." Stiles suggested, oblivious to the danger.
"Alright. He's a wolf dog. I have a license for one. He's just.." The man's voice raised a little bit. "He's like a part of the family. And there's nothing I wouldn't do to protect my family." Thankfully, his tone seemed to clue Stiles in, and his voice was tight but firm when he responded.
"We'll keep an eye out and call you if we get anything."
A few seconds later, they heard the door shut. Isaac turned to Priest, who in the past few seconds had pushed himself out of the corner and checked the lobby for scent to confirm what he already knew. Stiles burst into the examination room.
"Alright, who the hell was that!?" he demanded, throwing Priest a dirty look.
"His name's Tobias. He's a hunter with a vendetta out against my pack. It's a really long story that I don't have a lot of time to go into detail on. He doesn't care who he kills. Human, werewolf, emissary," he shot Stiles a knowing look, "It doesn't matter to him. I'm supposed to lure him and his little coven away from most packs. I was only supposed to be cutting through Beacon Hills for one night." He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling it as he did.
"Well.. What's Arrow Creek?" Stiles asked, holding out a piece of paper to Priest.
"What?" There was a severity in his tone that made Isaac and Stiles both take a step back.
"Arrow Creek. He wrote it down when he was giving me the dog information. He left it on the counter." Priest snatched the paper away staring at it.
"Oh my god."
AN: I know. I'm horrible. It's a cheesy cliffhanger. But we did get some information in this chapter, right? Right? Reviews are always appreciated, and I'll see you next chapter my lovelies.
~TheFallenArchangel
