The Long Day After
Friday, Jan. 21st
It wasn't a pleasant walk home. Stiles' bare feet seemed magnetized to every bit of gravel or glass they could find along the sidewalks. A quick sting and then gone, warmed by the tingling sensation of healing, the tiny drops of blood before the flesh sealed. He just needed a damned cross to carry, he thought with half-hearted blasphemy. Except his feet didn't tire, despite the sting, and the mid-morning sun was warm on his skin making for surprisingly good weather given last night's turn.
Still, it wasn't a good walk. Derek had pulled them out of the woods two miles from the Stilinski household. And the teen wolf couldn't figure out if he'd really been so turned around in the woods last night or if Hale had dragged him the long way around out of spite. Dumbass, Stiles self-chastised.
He hadn't thought the other werewolf was very expressive, except for anger; not until he'd brought up his sister. Stiles' fumbling attempt at comfort, at wanting to help but being utterly useless about it had made the man's face go still and pale. It was only a few minutes later, alone in the park that the young Stilinski realized the man had probably been trying to say something important about the Alpha. Something about how it took power from another lycanthrope. Maybe even a connection to the weird poaching. Stiles could only think of exactly where Derek's sister was and saw her again in his mind's eye. The body. Laura Hale.
Grimacing again at his turn of mind, Stiles sighed and let the thoughts circle, unable to keep up the effort of ignoring them. He'd had his moment, his conversation with the living relative of the dead girl he'd found, and he'd blown it.
Not that there was a good way to go about it, probably. And the wolf thing complicated matters too.
It was no longer the awkward, yes, I found your sister's body, I'm so sorry, but had evolved into: I found your sister's body and now I'm a werewolf, help? Stiles scuffed his heel just to feel the sting along with his inner recriminations, then raised a hand to scratch the back of his sun beaten neck. He wondered what Scott would've done or said, had he been the one turned after finding Laura. The boy had always been the more kind and compassionate of the two; he'd have thought of something better. Scott always knew the best way to support Stiles after his mother died. Whether it was just being there in the quiet, cuddled under the covers on a school night, or letting Stiles run his mouth about nothing at lunch when he'd just finished crying his eyes out in the bathroom because the Miss Hutchinson had ruffled his hair just like his mom had.
Stiles Stilinski had run the entire spectrum of grief stages, and Scott had been there for him through every step. He supposed the only thing he could do, being a complete stranger, was to try his best to do what Derek needed him to do. Whether it was watch what he said, say nothing at all, or a hug, the turned wolf determined that he would try his best for the grieving Hale.
The familiar shadow of his house instinctively halted his bare feet. With a sigh, the young Stilinski glanced up then guiltily away. He knew-he knew his father wouldn't hate him, was probably more worried than anything. But some small part of him wondered. Wondered if the man might flinch from him. If his father would fear him now… But he couldn't stand there forever.
His blue, mud spattered scrubs already attracted enough attention. He was lucky he missed the morning rush; it was bad enough the early afternoon crowd got a good look at the Sheriff's son making his way home without shoes and covered in muck like he'd escaped from an asylum. Straightening his spine with false confidence, Stiles hopped up the few steps and wiped his feet of most of the debris and blood before trying the doorknob: unlocked.
The teen hesitated, letting his hand hover before gripping into a tight fist and then shaking it out. He took a deep breath to steel his nerves and opened the door, stepping in quickly and locking it after. His father called out from deeper in the house, earnest and worried, "Stiles!"
"Yeah," he answered waveringly. Involuntarily gulping, he stepped down the hall to meet his dad coming from the office. The man never slowed his quick pace making Stiles hesitate, only to be suddenly wrapped up in strong arms. A rush of adrenaline flowed and ebbed through his veins, relief chasing for a heady cocktail in his blood. Stiles slumped into his father's embrace, grateful and slowly returning the hug. His senses went into overdrive, and the new shifter could feel a pulse in his ears that he couldn't tell was his own or not. A quick step pulse that slowly dub-dub-dub-dubbed slower and slower. Gun oil, salty sweat, and a hint of whiskey hit his nose and soothed him, until he recognized a more copper smelling undertone.
The young man involuntarily tensed, then he closed his eyes and gritted out, "I'm sorry." Sheriff Stilinski leaned back, holding onto his son's shoulders to keep him close and watch him with a furrowed brow.
"You alright, son?" he asked, and slid a palm to cup the nape of Stiles' neck. The hand and concerned expression calmed something inside, something with hackles and fangs that had gone tucked tail until this gesture. Stiles didn't know how to describe it, except maybe as the beast within, the wolf in the werewolf. But it was inherently him too, something inseparable from his own very human reactions. And it took a weirdly large amount of reassurance from the commonplace gesture.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Dad," he muttered, then reluctantly pulled back further out of his father's touch. His gaze unerringly found the short, awkwardly wrapped bandage on his father's forearm. Stiles couldn't control the wince across his face and crossed his arms close to his body. "How bad is it?"
The Sheriff sighed and held up the arm in question, "It's fine, Stiles. Barely a scratch."
"Liar." The word slipped out without thought, making Stiles cringe again. Freaking mind to mouth filter on the fritz. Probably out for a while as he adjusted to being off his meds, if he ever learned such a thing. The elder Stilinski looked back at him sternly, and the turned teen shrugged a shoulder, offering, "Your heart jumped a little."
The man gaped in surprise for a second before huffing a short laugh, then wiped a hand across his forehead, scratching through his hair back to his neck. He asked ruefully, "You can hear things like that now?" And when Stiles nodded, continued with, "Well, that'll make things interesting."
The youth nibbled his bottom lip then put forth, "And I can smell the blood."
His father raised his brows, looking down at his bandage with an impressed expression. It was pure white, no blood leaking through the thin gauze. Blue eyes stared back up at his son and he clarified, "It really is more of a scratch. No worse than if a big dog broke skin, didn't catch any veins or anything. I cleaned it up just fine, kid. Sounds like you're gonna have a lot of new things to learn though. You having any trouble?"
Stiles took the inquiry with gratitude and shrugged, arms loosening, "Just a lot of information at once. I can't help-" a dog barked a few houses down, catching the new wolf's ears before he zeroed in on the music of a jogger's iPod moving down the street that must've set it off, "-getting distracted," he shook his head and forced his gaze back to his dad, "Mostly sudden sounds I can't help but pay attention to. And new smells. Lots and lots of new smells. Old smells smell different, that kind of thing."
The garbage from the kitchen was more intense, he noticed distantly. A scent other than himself and his father was somewhere in the air, distant but comforting as well. He didn't even know how to describe it; it was too faded to make much of. "Well," the Sheriff sighed, dragging Stiles back into a serious conversation, "where did you end up last night? You finally calm down somewhere?"
The boy scratched at his elbow, contemplated sugar-coating it and how much to explain. He'd tell him about Derek, no question. The rest? He only realized he was biting his lip when he glanced back at the Sheriff and saw the man's disappointed gaze. Warily, Stiles shrugged and looked at his bare, dirty feet, "I had a panic attack. Got to the forest and calmed down, then… I couldn't stop it. And I passed out." Cut and dry. He knew that his dad knew there was more to it. But it could be left unsaid. Some things didn't have to be told to be explained. Sheriff Stilinski probably knew more about panic attacks than most people who had anxiety disorders after the first time his ten year old son couldn't breathe so long he passed out and scared his half-drunk father to death. He hadn't touched alcohol for a month afterward. He met the man's gaze when the Sheriff clasped his shoulder firmly.
"Alright, son. Anyone see you in all this?" The more formal tone, almost official sounding, turned Stiles' thoughts away, and let him accept the comforting hand.
"No, sir. Or at least, no one while I was freaking out last night. When I woke up Derek Hale was there," the Sheriff's brows rose, his face one large question mark to his knowing son, "Yeah, he, uh-he's back in town now. His sister, Laura, she… She's the girl I found in the woods." Father and son grimaced in unison, expressions more similar than their actual looks. The elder Stilinski held his tongue to encourage Stiles to continue, "He didn't say that until after he walked me back to civilization. We um… The Hales were werewolves."
"-the Hales?"
Lean arms bounced up unrestrained to gesture, "Most of them anyways, some were human. Derek's a werewolf too, and Laura was. She was attacked by the same one as me, took her-uh, Alpha powers?" Sheriff Stilinski observed his son with furrowed brows and pursed lips, intoning "Alpha powers" with disbelief. "Yeah, so now the big ugly beast is all Alpha-ed up and can turn other people into werewolves. Namely: moi," Stiles continued with dramatic tone and a flare of the hands, opening up more now that the focus of conversation wasn't about him or his mistakes, "Derek and I are betas. We can't turn anyone, thankfully," he involuntarily glanced at his father's bandage, then hurried on, "And the Argents are werewolf hunters."
"The Argents!?" The recently moved in family were well-known to the Sheriff's department, having just begun negotiations on a small ammunitions contract.
The turned boy widened his eyes in an equal expression of outrage, "I know, right? Derek says they're responsible for the Hale fire all those years ago. They came now 'cause of the poaching, which must've been the werewolf doing who-knows-what, and it kills Laura and attacks me, and now we don't know what it wants." He finished loudly, arms akimbo and reeling back on his heels in confused anger.
Stiles took several deep breaths, watching his father silently take in everything his son had blurted out so quickly. The man hummed thoughtfully, then placed his hands on his belted hips, looking down at the floor as he worked through what to say. If I have to listen to that dog all day, I might just go down there and do… something, the turned youth thought distractedly as his ears almost literally perked at the sudden, distant bark. He didn't understand why he could hear it over the low hum of the fridge or every other house noise, but it was starting to get on his nerves. Finally his father looked up and asked, "You and Derek are 'betas'?" Stiles nodded. "So… Is there a connection between him and this Alpha? Is he apart of his… his 'pack'?"
"No-" came the immediate response before he clicked his teeth shut. He didn't know why that answer instinctively came to mind, but he wasn't actually sure of anything about this. Derek had left before they could really get into the nuance of pack dynamics. "I mean, I don't think so," he squinted and shrugged his broad shoulders, "Yeah, I was bitten by the Alpha, so I don't know if that automatically makes me pack or anything. But even if the Alpha is supposed to be Derek's after killing his sister, I don't think that's gonna fly."
"Alright then," the Sheriff nodded decisively, then shifted topics. "I'm going to head into work for a short time. See how the case is coming along, what Sac's lab says about the evidence we found."
A cool feeling of dread wrapped around the boy's lungs, "Evidence?" he echoed. His father nodded again, this time with a sympathizing grimace.
"Yeah, I'm not sure what they'll find either. But I have to find out." Stiles' hands started to tremor. He shook them out and folded them firmly under his elbows.
"Shit," he muttered, earning a half-hearted stern look from his dad. Shuffling on his dirty feet, whiskey brown eyes flickered over the hall, instinctively following the buzz of the furnace in the walls, "Dad, I told Tara it was a freaking bear."
"And you were traumatized," the blond Stilinski emphasized with raised eyebrows, "by the attack, and certainly could have imagined the bear in the first place. The hairs looked animal, so we'll probably be finding wolf DNA. But if not, if it's something unknown we can call it an unknown hybrid of some kind. And if the sample is human: fine. People have come up with stranger things than using an animal as a tool for murder. Could say it was a person with a bear on a goddamn leash."
Stiles couldn't help but snort at the image. If someone could keep that monstrous Alpha on a choke chain he'd be so grateful he'd worship at their feet. However temporarily. But coming home to see his dad, dressed for work and ready to leave, reminded him of his own usual obligations. School he wouldn't mind skipping if it didn't leave him alone in the house all the live long day. And Scott he could never forget, "So if you're going to work, am I going to school?"
The Sheriff hummed in consideration, then answered, "No, I don't think so. The doctor was right that you should've stayed the night at the hospital. Better that you keep up the pretense of being injured since we've got werewolf hunters to be on the lookout for." Stiles involuntarily winced. God, Scott will never believe me. Or at least, when Stiles figured out the transforming bit, he'd believe him about werewolves-but not about Allison being apart of an evil supernatural-hunter family. Not until something bad happened anyway. That idealism, seeing the good in people, was one of the reasons why Scott was even still friends with Stiles, and God knew Stiles knew that he took heinous advantage of it. But it would also turn around and bite him in the ass when Stiles took a dislike to someone and Scott would defend them.
Hell, sometimes he even defended Jackson. The tool. Just because he's friends with Danny doesn't mean he has to have a good side. Everybody loves Danny.
"Oh crap, lacrosse tryouts!" Stiles almost shouted at himself, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, "I don't even know how Scott's doing." Looking up at his father, the boy gave the best puppy-eyes he'd learned from his best friend to the man hopefully, "Can I at least be there for him after school?"
With a gusty sigh, the Sheriff watched his son's for once genuinely earnest expression for a silent moment. Then gave in. "Fine." He waited with amusement for the sudden expression of joy, the arms flung up in victory, and then amended his statement, "But there'll be conditions." Stiles froze, then pretended to act more subdued and obedient which the elder Stilinski accepted with another sigh, "You can't tell anyone but Scott that you were bit. I don't want it getting around that you were anything but scratched by that beast, got it? And you gotta wear the sling." The young man groaned dramatically, but was nodding as well, "I know you don't like being restrained, but Melissa was right. Without the pain killers, your movement should be more painful."
"Not arguing," Stiles muttered, "I guess…"
Sheriff Stilinski nodded definitively, then slapped a palm on his son's scarred shoulder before cupping his nape again. Stiles suppressed a pleased hum, God, I am never getting used to that, and leaned into it slightly. He was going to have relearn body language or something, now that he was a little more animal than most. His father finished with another order, "Now go get cleaned up, you're a right mess, son."
"I smell like a creek, I know," the werewolf chirped back. Ducking under the raised arm for fun, Stiles bounded up the stairs happily enough with the results of his homecoming. He was still feeling guilty, but at least his dad wasn't acting any differently.
"Stiles, is that blood?" a panicked voice called up.
"Nope!" he shouted back in a rush, "Nope, nope! Nothing to see here!" And hopped into the bathroom before his father could make a fuss about it, slamming the door with enough force to shudder the walls. Wincing at the unexpected strength, Stiles looked for cracks in the drywall and was relieved for the lack. Close call.
Stripping the hospital scrubs expediently, the brown haired boy considered burning them and then wondered exactly how people went about that. He'd heard the phrase in books and television often enough, but how many people actually kept lighter fluid and some kind of flame-safe outdoor burning device on hand? A fireplace just didn't have the right dramatic flare. A barbeque seemed even worse. He imagined turning over a pair a pants with long metal tongs. It was an oil drum or nothing, the teen decided distractedly as he soaped and scrubbed. His hair was an easy fix, although it was half an inch longer than usual now in all the drama of the last few days. It was the blood and mud that was taking a few passes before the water finally ran clear. As most teenagers did, he considered taking himself in hand for a short time, then decided against it.
His father was already waiting downstairs, and while it wasn't quite the end of the school hour, they'd likely get lunch first before going to the high school and the station. Lacking any sense of shame, Stiles didn't much care about the fact his father was still in the house while he thought about masturbating, but he wasn't going to be rude. You don't do that when someone is waiting for you to get ready. At least if you like them.
He toweled off quickly enough with a spare towel in the linen cupboard from the hallway on the way to his room, leaving water as he walked. A quick dressing of jeans, T-shirt and plaid, was followed by socks and sneakers, before Stiles spied the hospital issue sling on his desk. He grimaced at it, looked instinctively for his phone, then rolled his eyes when he remembered it was in evidence. The younger Stilinski grabbed his wallet, left next to the sling thankfully, and jumped when his father shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
"You better mop up that water!" Giving a frustrated sigh that was more impatience than irritation, the water will evaporate seriously, the boy swiped his used towel to fling it against the closest puddle. With the grace of a toddler learning to walk, Stiles maneuvered the cloth out of his room and down the short hall to the very first puddle with just his foot. Back at the bathroom he was about to leave it in a corner when another shout echoed through his skull as if coming from right next to him, "Hang the damn towel, Stiles!"
Oh my God, he grouched, stooping to grab the stupid thing, and shouted down as he did as ordered, "You don't have to yell! I can hear you just fine down there!"
An evidently normal leveled Sheriff spoke to himself, "Oh fantastic. Now he can listen in to my conversations from anywhere in the house."
Stiles grinned and barely resisted shouting back down a sarcastic response. He snagged the sling before he left the second floor. When the turned teen reached the top of the stairs, he contemplated the single flight. He had superpowers now, right? Could he jump it, and stick the landing without braining himself? Would it matter if he did? He'd probably heal pretty quick.
"Don't even think about it," his father muttered crossly from the front door ahead of his son. His smile turned guilty before he raced down the stairs so fast he might as well have jumped, having skipped the last three in his haste. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, the Sheriff opened the door for his son, but stopped him before he got all the way out with a gesture and pointed look at the sling. Stiles scowled, but obeyed, sliding the fabric on over his shoulder and adjusting his elbow inside while walking to the cop's vehicle. He did spare his own prized Jeep a pat of acknowledge, with mental thanks to the Deputy who'd been given the task to drive it home, before hopping into the front seat.
The elder Stilinski had locked up and was putting the Crown Vic in reverse before Stiles stopped fidgeting with the placement of the sling. And then started to fidget with the placement of his seatbelt under the hampered limb. Trying to pay closer attention to the road and the empty chatter on the radio over his son's actions, the Sheriff eventually made the turn off towards his favored burger joint only for the teen to suddenly snap still like a scent hound. "No," the boy said decisively. He got a raised eyebrow in response. "No more greasy burgers, Dad. Na-uh. Nein. Nada. You want it in in Spanish? No."
With an irate sigh, the adult offered, "I'll get a salad."
"No you won't," his son said knowledgeably. Then pointed out the closest place of suitable sustenance, "Stop there."
"Subway?" the Sheriff asked in disgust, wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth. Even Stiles preferred Quizmo's like his father, but he would work with what he had. Glaring at the man next to him, his father gave in with a huff and made the turn in.
As they walked towards the building, Stiles decided to point out something he'd taken only his short time as a lycanthrope to work through, "It's not just pretty good hearing now, you know," saw the interest catch in his father's blue gaze and continued, "I can hear your freakin' heartbeat, like all the time. When you were downstairs and I was up. So now I have an early warning system. Nevermind how I'll be able to smell the fast food on you now."
"Great," the blond man muttered as he walked through the door his son mockingly opened for him, "Just… great. My son, the werewolf food Nazi."
Stiles gave his back a toothy smile, that was probably more threatening than it used to be, and went up to the glass bar to order personalized sandwiches for both of them. No, his father did not get to make his own or order the Italian Sub with meatballs. No, he wasn't getting anything but turkey and cheddar, no mayo, and a variety of veggies-shut up, you'll like them, no really. And then they were back out in the squad car to eavesdrop on the radio chatter while they ate their mediocre meals. Well… They were decent quality for the price, especially with all the stuff Stiles liked to layer them with. The Sheriff was probably grateful his sandwich was a bit more subdued than the odd collection Stiles had stuffed his own with.
A speedster was called in over the radio, and Stiles couldn't help twitching a hand towards the console with a grin only to be slapped away before his exasperated father. "What?" he tried to ask with his mouth full. He'd likely have been incomprehensible over the line anyway. The Sheriff didn't even bother to roll his eyes, too used to the habit of curtailing his son in his official vehicle.
When the elder Stilinski had managed to wolf down his disdained meal, he started the vehicle, barely waiting for his son to buckle up before heading towards the high school. Stiles was still picking jalapeno peppers from the wrapper and sucking mustard off his long fingers when they pulled into the school. Eating mostly one-handed had made for a messy lunch and left his father openly hoping, "Please tell me you don't eat that way in public."
"What?" he asked, distracted by the sudden alarm bell and activity of hundreds of young people slamming doors and hurrying to get off campus. The bustling confusion of sound was almost like white noise across his brain and took several seconds to sort through and label. He barely noticed his father palming his face with a sigh, absently thinking that he needs a picture of that to write 'literal face-palm' under, as he tried to focus on the side field where students were already filling the stands in preparation of supporting the lacrosse try-outs. Freaking yuppie sport…
"Nothing," the adult sighed, then tried to tell his son, "Depending on the case's progress, I might be back before the end of try-outs. But I should be able to get your phone out of evidence by now. They'll have copied your SIM card. And I won't be finding anything I shouldn't on that, right Stiles?" he ended meaningfully.
The boy automatically nodded as he tuned in to Coach Finstock talking to himself-dumbass kids don't know how to weave a damn net if it got them an 'A' on-as he crossed the field, "Uh huh. Totally," then finally registered what his dad said and turned to him with wide eyes, "Wait, what?"
"Get outta here," Sheriff Stilinski finally ordered, flinging his arm out in frustration and rubbing his forehead with his free hand.
"Yes sir!" And there came the mad scramble as Stiles hastened to follow through, only to fight with the seatbelt as it refused to give up his sling-wrapped arm and nearly fell out of the car. His cheeks flushed as he heard the minute sigh his father gave along with the distant snorts of laughter from the few students who still paid attention to his fumbles. And the freshmen. The teen did the only thing he could do: ignore it. Nothing to see here, and slammed the door before tapping the top nonchalantly. When he felt the Crown Vic start to reverse, he waved goodbye and headed towards the lacrosse field.
A quick scan told him most of the former team was geared up save for Jackson, and that told him Lydia wasn't in the stands yet either. Finstock was mostly assembled though and had finally stopped talking to himself. Stiles gave a single thought to wondering just how many people talk to themselves and how much he was going to overhear, before deciding he really wanted to learn how to tune out the world first thing. You just can't unhear some things.
"Stilinski!" the Coach called suddenly alighting on him as he got close to the bench. The turned wolf was so surprised the man got his name right, he froze like a deer in headlights, "Why aren't you dressed, what the Hell is all… this?" the man gestured to the sling with an annoyed look.
Stiles blinked. He'd been out of school for two days, you'd think the news would've gotten around. Sheriff's kid-in the woods-attacked. Something. "Uh, Coach I got mauled. By like a bear or something."
"That was you?" the teacher fairly accused. Bushy eyebrows glared down at a clipboard that Stiles assumed had all the signed up players' names, "So are you still playing this year or what?"
The young man stared at him, then pointed at his shoulder with his index finger, "Mauled, Coach. Those claws were vicious, man. I swear I almost lost feeling in my arm. I've gotta do, like physical therapy and shit."
"Uh huh, fine," the wild haired man muttered before giving the field a quick scan. He turned back, "Sure you don't want to just be on the bench or something?"
Stiles couldn't help laughing, finally realizing what his Coach was getting at. And a little proud that despite his mediocre talent, the man still preferred him to teaching the newbies, "Nope. Sorry, Coach," he gave Finstock a manly pat on the shoulder, belatedly realizing that was too much force as the man bent under him, "You're stuck with the young bloods this year."
Bobby Finstock huffed under the strong, though affectionate gesture and squinted at him in suspicion. The turned wolf used the hand to scratch his neck and grin dopily, hoping like Hell the man let it pass. He was lucky, someone out on the grass caught the man's attention. Coach walked out to the middle with a passing, "If you're not on the bench get your ass on the stands, Bilinski!" and started to rally the new and old players to him for the second day of try-outs.
A sixth sense, a familiar wheeze, a scent on the breeze, or a combination thereof had Stiles going alert and turning towards the gym's locker room entrance. Jogging ahead of Jackson and his friends was the one and only Scott McCall. Grinning unashamedly, Stiles waved his free arm wildly to get his attention and was rewarded with a wide smile. The boy put on an unlikely amount of speed.
"Stiles!" he shouted over the Coach's initial speech and muttering youths, garnering all of their attention. Finstock rolled his eyes and kept talking, letting Scott slide for the moment as the gathering was ignored in favor of pouncing on his best friend. The turned teen laughed as he caught a slightly breathless Scott, returning the bear hug as best he could with one arm and wary of his strength on weak lungs. "I'm so glad you're alright!"
"Yeah, gonna have some wicked battle scars though," the young werewolf couldn't help but proudly admit as his best friend leaned back, staring at the sling with a bit of awe.
"Dude," Scott replied, finally getting his breath back and scanning Stiles, looking for more obvious injuries.
But just before they could get into a lengthy back and forth about that night, Coach Finstock interrupted by yelling, "This is not a tea party! You girls can gab later. Stilinski! In the stands before you break something else. McCall! Ass on the field!"
With a harried look between his beloved sport and his best friend, Scott told Stiles, "You can tell me all about it after try-outs, drive me to work?"
"Only if you wanna ride in a squad car," Stiles rejoined, watching in bemusement as the torn teen walked backwards towards the field and scooped up his fallen stick. He added, "I'll tell you after you make first line!" which got him a straight out beaming grin that he couldn't help but smile back at. Such a puppy.
Then those chocolate brown eyes slid to the side of the turned wolf and lit up with a new emotion. Scott gave a fierce, happy wave to someone in the stands before pelting to the attacker position of the scrimmage with enthusiasm. Nonplussed, Stiles looked over his shoulder and saw about what he expected.
Lydia Martin and Allison Argent were sitting on the middle height of the stands. What did surprise him, was catching the tail end of Allison waving back with a soft smile. Confused, Stiles glanced back and forth between his friend and said friend's crush wondering when the heck did that happen?
Coach set the players into motion and Stiles retreated before he could get told off for being on the wrong side of the player benches again. He couldn't help eyeballing the young Argent as he chose to sit on the first rung of the stands, closest to the players' equipment. Obviously, Stiles was going to need his phone back, pronto. Because this was not cool. How did him missing two days of normal life cause a popular-werewolf hunter-girl to look at his shy Scotty?
A shiver itched down his spine with accompanying paranoia and the teen wolf rubbed his neck while trying to look behind him. No one was staring at him, or seemed to be looking in his direction. He turned a little to look back up at the girls, the likely hunter. Nope. Not paying him one iota of attention. It felt like his hackles were bristling still. With a small scowl, Stiles rubbed fiercely at the fine hairs on the nape of his neck and refocused on the field.
Scott was actually on Jackson's team for this scrimmage, on the boy's left and completely ignored. A quick glance told him Danny was in the net. And… what was that kid's name, Isaac? He was a defender. Stiles winced as the ball was intercepted from Jackson and the poor guy flinched away from the sprinting attacker. Jeez… Someone give that guy a hug. Or at least get him off of defense. Danny seemed to think the same thing, as he caught the ball with ease and ran forward a few steps to throw the ball to Matt. The wolf's lip curled involuntarily; he'd never liked the guy for some reason unknown to him. Just rubbed him the wrong way. Probably because he was friends with Jackson, Stiles figured as the play quickly turned on the offensive again.
With poor Scott stuck running back and forth, freaking Whittemore was stealing the show. There was a moment where all the sounds around Stiles, the conversations, breathing, the pens on paper and backpacks on metal, the wind in the trees and cars idling in the parking lot, all turned to white noise. And then his hearing hyper-focused with his inhale. Scott, the young man thought with a worried look, listening to the rapid heart rate and overworked lungs. There was a slight crackle, getting worse as he listened and turning into a wheeze with each exhale.
Instinct drove Stiles to his feet, staring carefully at Scott while he fumbled for a certain backpack. His own heart quickened and he licked his lips nervously. Finally palming the breathing aid from a side pocket, the werewolf jogged to their coach but didn't speak yet, hoping.
It was no use. Scott refused to slow, chasing the athletic Jackson up and down the grass to stay open for a pass that the team captain absolutely refused to give him. A subsonic growl started in Stiles' chest, eyes glinting blue for a split second as they turned on Whittemore. He snarled, "Coach!" The man startled, looking surprised to see who'd been standing next to him for a full minute. He barely got to raise his brows in question before Stiles continued, "Scott needs a break. And maybe a different position."
Finstock opened his mouth angrily, but stopped, finally registering the inhaler in Stiles' hand. Teeth clicking shut on a nod, the lacrosse coach lifted his whistle for a long screech. The turned boy felt like his teeth were rattling in his skull as the sound echoed much louder than it would against human eardrums. Forcing himself to unclench, Stiles shook himself then rubbed and pulled on his ears to ease the pain. He barely caught the end of the man's surprise repositioning of the players, "-Danny! Get on Jackson's left. Wanna see if his majesty will deign to pass to you. Scott, c'mere and grab a long stick. You're in the net…"
He continued to rearrange the opposite team of the scrimmage, but Stiles stopped caring, tracking Scott as he wheezed over to the bench. "Dude," he scolded with a concerned look, and waved the life-giving steroid about. McCall gave him a weak smile, and quickly took two puffs from the device.
"It's… okay, Stiles," the boy breathlessly started, and grabbed the large goalie stick from Coach's pile of equipment. Danny had already been and gone, replacing his own quality stick for an offensive one. Scott had his own offensive stick as well, had probably never considered defense because it was less glorious on the high school totem pole. With a slightly easier smile, Scott added the tidbit, "I did pretty good in the net yesterday," before hightailing back to his temporary team.
The easy-going, though ambitious, boy clacked sticks with Matt, who had been switched to defense, and settled into position. Stiles showed a glimpse of human sized fangs in distaste, then retreated to the stands. Just as he sat down, it felt like his ears almost perked up at the sound of his best friend's name. On a certain lovely young woman's tongue.
"-Scott McCall, huh? He's sort of… Puppy-ish. If you're into that sort of thing," was added on derogatorily. The teen let his face express his inner disbelief as no one was close by or paying attention to him. Sometimes he didn't think Lydia even knew Scott or Stiles existed.
"I thought you said you didn't know him," Allison teasingly rebutted. Ah, yes, that made more sense… The werewolf watched the field of play with a jaundiced eye, only wincing at particularly vicious checks or tackles. Poor Isaac was doing better as an aggressor, but still wasn't hostile enough to force his opponent off their feet.
Lydia seemed to speak almost grudgingly, but Stiles resisted turning to look at the cold, strawberry blond goddess, "He did do well yesterday. And I know all the first line boys, he could be one of them. If he actually does something worthwhile today."
Grimacing for the fact it was more truthful than hurtful, the young Stilinski started up an inner mantra, C'mon Scott, you can do this. For once, Stiles thought his best friend had a chance. That guy had run drills all through last summer and forced the lanky youth into more after school practices than was appreciated in the fall. His catching was excellent, and his throws were pretty darn good. It was just putting it together with the running had always been Scott's problem, through no fault of his own.
Jackson caught Danny's assist and swung his stick, putting the ball in the net with a frankly beautiful arch. Stiles scowled as the people behind him cheered and the team captain jogged back into position with an unbearable smugness. Yes, Jackson, we all know you're an over-achieving ass. Let someone else take the shot sometime, the young man thought caustically, then had to shift gears as Scott's side was suddenly on the defensive. They'd put a man behind Isaac that had managed to swivel around Matt surprisingly well. Stiles wondered if he should put more effort into learning these guys' names when he wasn't going to be on the team anymore. C'mon Scott...
Unconsciously biting his knuckles, the boy's heart rate matched rhythm with Scott's as the aggressor approached for the shot. A red tinge filled his vision and the field's movements slowed in pulses. He could see the shot lined up clear as day from across the whole field, could see Scott step forward and bring his net up to intercept…
Stiles was jumping up in excitement a second before Scott even caught the ball. "Yeah!" he shouted, as his best friend caught a pretty damn good throw. McCall's confidence obviously peaked as he gave the net a little twirl before sending it off to another player with a smile. Stilinski barely restrained from using both hands as he waved enthusiastically, "That's my friend! Woohoo! Way to go, Scott!"
Behind him he could hear Argent on her feet, clapping loudly and shouting. As he settled down to watch once more, Stiles decided she couldn't be all bad if she genuinely liked Scott. The second she broke his heart however, she was dead to him. See if he cared if a werewolf ripped her heart out. Then he winced at his callous thought, even as it was probably true. Stiles knew he had a very limited range of compassion. He loved his family and friends. And he'd try to help anyone within his abilities to do so, which were admittedly moreso now than a week ago. But he wouldn't do it at the expense of own loved ones. Although… Ah, Hell, the amber eyed teen inwardly sighed as he realized if Scott fell in love he'd never allow Stiles not to help, even if they broke up. He'd never forgive Stiles otherwise.
Here's hoping their relationship was a flare and fade kind of romance. The shifter went back to gnawing on his right hand with anxiety whenever the ball turned towards Scott, unknowing that his eyes occasionally flashed blue whenever his vision enhanced. Eventually over the thirty minutes of playtime, short water break, and team switch up for the last half of try outs, Stiles began to realize that Scott was definitely going to be first line.
He didn't know what it was about being in front of that net, but his friend was on fire! The only time a ball got by him was when his defenders were taken out and the aggressors had switched sides of the field too quick for him to react to the shot. And that was obviously a failing of the whole team, rather than Scott's fault. Nevermind, that it had been the duo Whittemore and Mahealani to do so. Apparently Coach Finstock could only switch up the teams so much without ruining Jackson's edge. Still, Stiles was on his feet more often towards the end, cheering and shouting abuse right alongside his economics teacher who barely noticed.
Coach's timer went off, giving the new wolf very little warning before the man raised the whistle to his lips. Wide-eyed, the teen ducked his head and firmly clasped his ears just as the shrill sound blew, barely saving his hearing that time. He still ended up shaking his head and muttering to himself, "Gotta learn to tone it down, Jesus…" as the many bodies crossed the field.
Bobby Finstock had a rather unusual way of coaching, never mind how he ran these two-day try outs. Some coaches had three-day try outs, spaced by a day in between to let their potential players rest. Others managed week long sessions depending on positions and number of players. Finstock held quick and dirty try outs that were almost like practices, picked at least half of his returning team for first line with one or two surprises, and let the rest know who was on the bench the Monday after. It was a bit sadistic in that it let the anxious little freshmen stew, but Stiles also knew the man took careful consideration to who he'd have to keep company with on the bench. Somehow Greenberg always managed to at least make the bench despite Finstock's best efforts. "Alright, here's the starting line-up: Jackson Whittemore, Danny Mahealani…" After two seasons, Scott and Stiles were well versed with this sudden announcement, but the wolf could smell a sudden sour stink of anxiety coming from the younger boys. He wrinkled his nose and stepped up to Scott, thudding his hand down on the shoulder pad.
Scott grinned back up at him, for once confident in himself. It was strange, feeling good about lacrosse, even if for someone else. For so long Stiles had viewed it as a chore. But the curly-haired teen's excitement was palpable, though growing a little more nervous as Coach Finstock wound down. But Stiles, while not recognizing half the names, knew for a fact none of those players had played goalie. Well, besides Danny, who was assuredly going to be on offense this season. And sure enough…
"... and Scott McCall, in the net."
The named group grew rowdy, whooping and hollering, Scott right alongside them for the first time. After a quick jump and shout, McCall glomped onto his best friend and Stiles returned it the best he could with one hand. Scott turned around to clack sticks and slap backs with the rest of his team, obviously knowing all of them in a manner Stiles didn't. Hell, some of them don't even know Scotty, he noted with amusement as the ernest Scott congratulated a few players who didn't seem to recognize him.
A chemically floral scent caught his nose, making him sneeze just as he registered strawberry blond hair at the corner of his vision. Lydia was dressed adorably warm today, with a beanie that only served to make her curls look even bouncier somehow. Stiles blinked away as she tumbled full tilt into Jackson to give him a victorious kiss. God, how the fuck did she put up with him? Gritting his teeth and shoving the thoughts aside, the turned teen decided he wasn't going to get annoyed on such a good day for Scott. Speaking of, where had he ended…
Ah. The boy was receiving his own congratulations kiss. Coming from Allison it was on the cheek, of course. Which had made the both of them blush sweetly. Throwing his head back with a groan, Stiles felt a rollercoaster of conflicting feelings about this. The couple were a regular Disney royalty couple, complete with dimples and animal magnetism. As in Scott could probably call a bird down to his hand if he tried hard enough. Good God.
With an aggravated sigh, Stiles slapped on a smile and moseyed over, only managing to hear their conversation at a normal level as everyone chatted about the lacrosse party before dispersing. Scott was offering, "I could pick you up if you want…?"
"Yeah, I mean. That'd be great," Allison dimpled up at him.
Stiles awkwardly clapped Scott's back, having to come at him from the side of his sling and forced to use his opposite arm, and startled him. "Stiles!" he almost yelped.
"Dude, you are going to be awesome this year!" the werewolf started, his smile becoming more genuine before he affected a faux feminine accent, "You are so coming over tomorrow though. You gotta dish about your new honey." He ended with a cheesy finger gun over at Allison. Which amazingly enough made her laugh out loud, while Scott just blushed and pushed Stiles' 'gun' out of the conversation.
"Hi Stiles," the young woman started, surprising him. Her smile turned compassionate and she gestured to his sling, "Are you doing okay? Scott didn't know you'd be out of the hospital yet. If you need him, we could pick another day to-"
"No!" Stilinski shouted, having watched his best friend's face begin to fall in disappointment. It was also partial shock at the undue kindness. "I mean, no, no, I'm fine. Really. I'm just scratched," he started to gesture with wide spread, hooked fingers to show an approximate injury which actually made both teens wince at him, "I've got drugs and-and stuff. I'm good. I've got more time at home to police my dad's diet now." The half lie, half truth tumbled from his tongue without forethought, but it worked so he didn't backtrack and Scott nodded gratefully.
Puppy brown eyes glanced between Stiles and Allison though he responded to the 'injured' youth first, "I'll definitely come by, first thing tomorrow Stiles. I promise."
"Not first thing," the teenager complained with a displeased groan. The couple laughed lightly at him, "Let me sleep for Christ's sake."
"Okay, okay. Noon then."
"Two o'clock."
"Noon."
"Scott."
"Stiles. I'm not waking you up for practice anymore, jeez," the newly made first line player ended exasperatedly. "And I work tomorrow."
He squinted at his friend as if to test the truthfulness despite knowing his schedule by heart, then acquiesced. "Fine," but stuck his tongue out at him petulantly. Allison giggled.
"Oh!" she started, surprising the guys. They followed her gaze to a light haired man leaning against a red SUV patiently, "That's my dad, I gotta go. Bye Stiles, see you tonight Scott!"
The couple was so caught up watching each other as she left, that Stiles' freezing went unnoticed. He turned abruptly away, giving the man less than his profile if the Argent looked in his direction. Swallowing thickly, the worried wolf twitched anxiously then realized he accidentally rolled his 'bad' shoulder. Scott finally looked over as Stiles hovered his right hand over the sling, hissing in faked pain. "Stiles?"
"Fine, fine, just moved what I shouldn't, you know me," he rambled and acted up adjusting the sling around his arm. Scott hovered in a worried fashion, asking if he could help, but thankfully a particular SUV was getting into gear and out of the parking lot by then. Stiles pushed him away playfully and told him he'd be late for work. The goalie began to collect his water and gear, extolling each of his more fantastic saves as if Stiles hadn't been right there on the sidelines.
They were some of the last students to leave the field and lot, but the Sheriff only just arrived, squad car prowling around parked parents and empty student vehicles. Stiles waved until it stopped, only half listening to Scott's excitement. The black and white automotive beeped in acknowledgement, scaring several students who had been driving out of the lot. The werewolf grinned at the sudden screech of brakes around them, just distant enough not to be painful. His father was a slick son of bitch sometimes. And definitely enjoyed those kinds of reactions just as much as Stiles did, though not so openly. Stiles knew he should never go into law enforcement. As much as it appealed, it would also be tons of trouble for him.
The younger Stilinski paused besides Scott's bike, exchanging a manly bro-hug and promise to see each other the next day before letting the happy, normal teenager go to unchain his bike. As Stiles crossed the parking lot, he felt yet another brush of paranoia, hairs rising along his arms and neck. He shivered, then met his dad's gaze through the windshield. The feeling was still there.
Unnerved, he rubbed the back of his neck and instinctively glanced back towards the field. It took half a second to recognize the dark figure by the field seating. Surprised, Stiles gaped for a second, then awkwardly waved at Derek Hale of all people. His eyes flashed blue as he took in the man's details from a distance. Dude looks pissed. His arm dropped and he hustled toward his dad, feeling like a scolded dog, tail tucked against his belly.
Stiles fairly slammed the passenger door shut, but for once his father was too distracted to scold him. Having seen who he was waving at, the man was leaning forward and asked, "Is that-?"
"Yep!" the teen chimed, then rolled his hand in 'get on with it motion' to helpfully speed the older Stilinski along. The Sheriff looked unimpressed, but shifted the car into gear anyway. "Derek Hale. Looking like I pissed in his cereal for some reason." His father cringed in disgust at the mental image. "I don't know what I did, but I'd rather say hi when he's not going to Hulk out at me."
Sheriff Stilinski snorted, glancing at his son with a raised brow as he finally merged into traffic. Stiles knew that look was for the rather cowardly comment, but what the Hell. Sometimes ignoring a problem did make it go away. Sometimes. Once in a while… "Did you happen to get his number this morning?"
"No...?" Stiles drew out the vowel to give the single syllable a question intonation and watched his father closely.
"Hmm," the man muttered and went quiet. Stiles stared. And stared. Then pulled the seatbelt around himself so he could sit more comfortably facing his dad for a full on glare. You can't just ask a question like that and then drop it! Finally with a groan, the Sheriff ordered, "Sit properly for God's sake, I'll tell you." Then held his tongue until Stiles did as stated. However reluctantly, because his father was not above using such tactics to create deflections. But this time his words proved true, "We got identification back on Laura Hale this morning. I tried to reach Derek's last number, but either he's not answering or it's going somewhere else that doesn't want to pick up."
Here Stiles hummed in thought, before quietly offering, "If it's not an old number, he probably doesn't want to answer it…" The Sheriff grunted in agreement and silence filled the car. It was a mix of sympathy and old pain, that silence. It stung. There'd been days in his youth where silence had hollowed out his home, stealing his voice and freezing in its intensity. He longed to get rid of it, and cleared his throat, trying to think of something to blurt out to ease the tension.
"DNA analysis came back on the animal hair found at the crime scene," the elder Stilinski offered, stunning his son with his forthrightness. Stiles gave an interested acknowledgement to say he was listening, and the man continued, "It was wolf hair." The boy winced. "Which doesn't negate the fact we know there was a person involved."
"What?" he asked almost shrilly, then coughed hard and added, "I mean, how does the evidence say there was a person? We know, because werewolves, but how would the Sunnydale police force know that?"
"Stiles," the Sheriff complained in a single word. His son waved his sling covered arm impatiently. They could get into inappropriate references to terrible fictional cops later. The man sighed, "Because with both halves of the body, the medical examiner determined she may have been attacked by a wolf, but she was cut in half by a blade."
Amber eyes went comically wide, "Holy shit."
"Yep," he was answered dully. The blond Stilinski looked visibly stressed despite sagging against the driver's seat for a moment. Stiles felt a pang of guilt and looked away, slumping against his own seat in turn.
Several silent minutes later they arrived home, but neither tried to leave. It was odd, the teen wolf thought. Usually silence drew them apart, each of them instinctively going to their own spaces to deal with their hurt. But this silence… The quiet as each thought over Laura and her murderer, was almost companionable despite the heartache. Stiles could almost feel it begin to resolve around them into an air of determination. He looked up just as his father reached out to clasp his son's neck.
The Sheriff gave him an affectionate shake, "You know what you have to do tomorrow, yeah?"
The werewolf sighed. But answered with finality, "Talk to Derek."