The trip to the bedroom wasn't the smoothest, with Peter barely able to stay on his feet and Marcy still a bit weak from the Wolfsbane dosage she had taken earlier in the night, but they managed. There were a few stumbles, but they managed. The man winced as she all but dropped him onto the mattress, his head smacking against the cherry wood headboard.
"Easy," he chided, earning an eye roll from the Omega.
"Sorry."
Peter nuzzled against her throat as she leaned over him to pull back the comforter. The strange smell bit at his senses, irritating and confusing them. But he ignored that, focusing on the familiar as his hand came up to cup the back of her neck to pull her closer. Peter tentatively licked at the exposed skin, drinking in the familiar taste, the familiar warmth, anything but the unfamiliar smell on the sheets and pulsing through her bloodstream. Marcy stiffened under his touch. A cringe creased his brow as she leaned back, features hard and unreadable. Her fingers raised, hovering over his cheek, but she let them fall before they touched.
The man sneered weakly at her apathy. In truth, Peter could handle her being mad at him. He could even handle her hating him, but this indifference; after all they'd been through...it hurt that she could shut him out so easily. It was worse than hatred. Frustrated and with deeply buried hurt, he asked, "You hate me that much?"
"I never hated you." Marcy dropped his gaze to his hand, limp on the cool sheets as she confessed, "I loved you."
His fingers twitched.
"And you tried to use me as your whore," She finished, voice and eyes cold. His hand slipped over hers, blanketing it a moment before she pulled away. "I didn't deserve that, Peter."
"No," He agreed with a frown, "you didn't. Can you forgive me?"
Voice hoarse with unshed tears, the woman told him to get some sleep and slipped out the door.
Peter watched her go with a sigh. He closed his eyes, listening to the woman try to muffle her sobs outside the room. The bed didn't smell right. It didn't smell like them anymore; it smelt like cleaning products. Like cheap cologne and strangers. It didn't surprise him that his Beta had sought out other men, even if she had said she loved him. He wondered if that was true. Marcy hardly seemed the monogamous type, but the thought that she had tried to replace him so quickly stung a bit. He had only been dead a few months. How long had she waited to bring another man to her bed? Had she not grieved him at all? It was those thoughts that ate away at Peter as he fell asleep.
When he woke, it was morning. He was still rather sluggish, his movements stiff and strength low as he dragged himself forward. His bones ached, but the pain was manageable. Peter inhaled deeply before he willed himself to stand. Muscles tightened in his legs, sending a crinkle of heat through his veins as he made his way out of the room. He sniffed the air again. Marcy was nowhere in sight, her scent the only remnant of her presence.
A sigh slipped from his throat. The former Alpha moved toward the bathroom, his steps slow and precise as he got in the shower. The idea of a bath had been tempting, but he didn't want to chance a fall; not while he was alone. Cranking the hot water, Peter bit the inside of his cheek, the woman's words from the night before coming back to him.
It didn't surprise him that Marcy was in love with him. He had suspected for some time; as feral as she pretended to be, her ruthlessness was rooted in sentimentality. Her emotions ruled her, from her jealousy that killed Jennifer to how desperately she had clung to him after he shared his pain with her. No, what surprised him was that Marcy admitted it.
Blue eyes closed as steam encompassed the stall, the scalding water pouring over his shoulders. He tilted his head back, soaking his hair. Peter never thought she would admit it, not with her pride. His eyes peeked open. He washed away the grime gentle hands had missed the night before, mind wandering to the woman who had been his right hand.
Marcy was still very much an enigma to him. Yes, he knew every line of her body, every soft sound she made and how prettily she flushed when he touched her. But her past, her life before the bite, her life before him, Peter didn't know anything. Just that she had been a broken college student he had been able to manipulate and transform into an animal. The man felt his stomach clench and without looking behind him he turned off the water.
Peter had just wrapped the towel around his waist when the front door opened. Marcy slipped into the apartment, the bag she in her hands crinkling slightly as he came into view. Her heart skipped, but her features remained an emotionless mask.
"Got you some clothes." She lifted the bag. "Just some sweats, but…"
"Thanks." Peter crossed down the hall quickly, ignoring the slight flinch she gave when he reached for it. He took the bag and dropped his tone. It was light and passive, almost teasing as he leaned into her space, "You don't have to be scared of me, you know."
"I'm not scared of you." The woman's heart was steady, but her gaze faltered when it reached his own. Anxiety worked it's way into her scent, a dull twist of tartness that grew stronger the longer he stared.
A smirk pulled at his lips, "Marcella."
"Okay, maybe I am." The brunette swallowed. Her eyes narrowed on his face as she took in his worn features. "Why me? Why'd you come to me?
"I needed someone I could trust," his voice was soft as he lifted a hand to cup her cheek. He thumbed the bag under her eyes carefully, "I needed you."
Marcy shook her head, bottom lip quivering as she sighed, "Don't give me that. Just…just tell me what you need."
"I need you to go see a man named Deaton. Scott's boss." The man continued to touch her face, his fingers moving over her temple and down her jaw in a lover's caress. "He might know a way for me to heal faster."
She gave him a brisk nod and pulled away.
"Marcella?"
The woman paused.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your bereavement with my resurrection." He smirked at her restrained laugh, warming flooding through him at the familiar sound. Cocky and quietly pleased, Peter told her, "I knew you missed me."
"Just go get changed," Marcy tossed him a glance over her shoulder, gaze raking over his naked form. It lingered appreciatively on his chest before dropping to the hand that held up his towel. With a wry smirk, she continued, "you better clean that up; you're getting water all over my floors."
"I'll get right to that," the man smirked, letting the towel drop to the hardwood floor. At her blush, he snickered. Marcy said nothing, just slipped out of the apartment with a huff.
Admittedly, she didn't go inside the office right away. She had hailed a cab, not wanting to involve Clay and sat at the bus stop across the street from the clinic. The idea of going to an outsider for help went against her nature, but she did want to help Peter. She just had to steel her nerve first. The air was cold and crisp, unsurprising for the time of year, but she was numb to it. Her dark hair danced around her face as the wind blew, and with a deep breath, the werewolf stood.
She fixed her coat, primped her hair, then slipped into the clinic. It reeked of wet fur and teenagers. A bell chimed over her head and a faint voice called, "Just a minute!" from the backroom.
Moments later a handsome man with dark skin and a goatee came out. With a warm smile that made Marcy uncomfortable, he pulled off his latex gloves. "Hello. How may I help you?"
"Are you Deaton?"
"I am," He moved closer to the counter, but made no move to leave its safety. "How can I help?"
Her blue eyes blinked passively back at him, "Like, the Deaton?"
The man tilted his head slightly, his tone a bit more suspect than before, "I am." His gaze raked over her petite form. Her clothes were conservative and modest, features tired but surprisingly delicate. Not at all what he was expecting from Peter's accomplice. With a hint of hostility in his face, he replied, "you must be Marcella."
"It's Marcy," She corrected, moving closer to the counter. Her eyes dropped to it and she pointed at it with a dainty finger, "Mountain Ash?"
"That's right."
The brunette nodded her approval. "Good call."
"I assume you're here about Peter," Deaton spoke in an almost wistful tone. It irritated the woman a touch, but she kept quiet. Angering the only man who could help them didn't seem like the most practical approach. The vet shook his head, "well, I'm sorry to say there's nothing I can do for him."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"You were going to ask how to get him back to full strength. How to make him an Alpha again," His smile turned cold, "how to make sure all your hard work didn't go to waste."
Marcy's eyes narrowed, "Don't assume to know anything about me and Peter." They moved around the room and she moved to sit on one of the chairs that were lined along the wall as she carried on, "I didn't bring Peter back. He did that himself, and frankly, I'm not sure he's ready to be an Alpha again…"
"And you are?"
She let out a scoff, "I don't want to be an Alpha. I don't want anything to do with the shitty little pack of teenagers this town has." Her gaze dropped, eyes glazed over and blank. The woman swallowed, but continued in a steely tone, "But I do want to know about Peter's condition and I'll take any information you can give me."
Deaton observed her warily. Her posture was stiff and unnatural, too rigid to be comfortable; spine bent forward into herself. He took in the slight tremble of her hands and how shallow and irregular her breathing was. A frown pulled at his lips. Without second thought, the man crossed the barrier, pulling a pen light out from his pocket as he knelt in front of her. Careful fingers tilted her chin up, her eyes flashing a threatening yellow that caught him off guard. Without showing it, the vet clicked the light on. Deaton's lips pursed as he shone it in her eyes, first the right then the left. The regularly red or pink vessels in her eyes were a wicked black.
Pulling back, he arched a brow at her, "Did he do this to you?"
"Did he what? Dose me with Wolfsbane?" The woman offered with a hint of coarse amusement, "no. Right now, I'm fairly certain he couldn't if he wanted to."
"Than what happened?" He stood and offered his hand to her, "come with me."
Marcy eyed it dubiously, but accepted his help. "I'm not part of Derek's pack."
"Did I say you were?"
"Well, no, but aren't you like his…" Her nose wrinkled as she stepped over the barrier, "advisor or something? I don't think he'd like you helping me."
A wry smirk crossed over his lips, "What Derek doesn't know won't hurt him. Get on the table please."
"I'd prefer to stand." She replied, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, holding the trembling limbs as close to her body as she could get them.
Deaton visibly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Werewolves. "Very well. Would you care to explain why it is you've taken to dosing yourself with Wolfsbane? And how often?"
"Four times a day." She swallowed, a touch embarrassed as he arched a brow at her. Fighting a blush, the brunette explained, "If I'm going to be an Omega, I have to be able to handle anything thrown at me- that includes hunters."
"You think you can build up immunity?"
"I can try."
He blinked, clearly a touch surprised and maybe a touch disturbed by her lack of self preservation. "I'll admit, I've never heard that particular method of self defense before." Deaton moved around his desk and pulled out a fresh pair of gloves and a sterile needle. Gesturing to her arm, he asked, "Maybe I?"
Marcy shrugged off her coat. Setting it on the table, she spoke in a clinical, clipped tone as she rolled up her sleeve, "I've run a few tests myself and beside some headaches, fatigue and nausea, there hasn't been any major side effects so far."
He tied a tourniquet around her upper arm. The woman stiffened but didn't pull away.
"Just in case," The man wet a cotton ball with alcohol and rubbed it over the inside of her elbow. Marcy wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell, but stayed respectfully silent as he spoke, "You say you do this four times a day? For how long?"
"Maybe a month." She watched him ready the needle. "Once when I get up, then at lunch, after school and again before I go to bed."
The vet let out a disapproving hum and pressed the needle in. As her blood wound down the tubing, he chastised her in a gentle tone, "That could be rather dangerous. If you ever choked or started to vomit-"
"Well, than, all my werewolf problems would be solved than, wouldn't they?" She offered him a sardonic smile. "No, I'm not worried about that. It's not one of the side effects so far, the worst I've had is some black tears on the bodily functions front."
"And how much are you using?" Deaton untied the tourniquet and pulled out the needle. He watched her skin heal instantly and made a mental note that her heal factor was working as it should be.
"Two milliliters at most, deluded with water each time."
Another disapproving hum, but this one was followed by a question she wasn't expecting, "Does Peter know?"
She blinked at him. Her surprise was clear and honest, innocent on her soft features. "No. He's been back a day, I'm not going to spring this on him…" Her gaze flickered over his features, "you're not going to tell me how to help him heal, are you?"
"The only thing that can help him now is time."
"So, it's permanent? I'm not going to wake up to a corpse in my bed?" Marcy kept her head down and her voice light, but the man still caught a hint of eagerness in it.
"What Peter did required some very serious and strong magic and while he certainly won't be at full strength for a while," Deaton nodded begrudgingly. "I would say so long as he doesn't cross anyone, he should be fine. Or as fine as someone like Peter can be."
The Omega beamed at him, worry and fear disappearing from her face and for a moment Deaton was struck by how genuine it seemed. Moreover, how young it made her appear. More like a girl barely out of high school than a woman in her mid-twenties. She pulled it back quickly, but a small smirk remained, pulling at the corner of her mouth. The woman nodded to herself, "Good."
"Hm."
Marcy looked up at him, "What?"
"Nothing," Deaton smiled at her. It was a cryptic, forced little twitch of his lips. He motioned for her to follow him, "I'm afraid my next appointment should be here shortly, Marcy. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time."
"If you have any more info on Peter, I'd prefer it before I go."
"As of right now," The man shook his head, "I know as much as you do."
It was a lie, but his heartbeat was smooth and normal, so Marcy missed it as she crossed the barrier. He closed it behind her, but she paid it no mind, not bothering to thank or address him as she left. A genuine smile crossed the emissary's lips as the door shut. It was an interesting development; if Peter Hale was as truly dead inside as he claimed to be, he would've never brought himself to a rival werewolf. It showed an inordinate amount of trust. Briefly, the vet wondered just how deep the bond between the two ran, but pushed the thought aside as the door chimed and a customer stepped in with a cat carrier.
A/N: So sorry for the long wait, I was without a beta for the longest time. But, she's back and things are up and running, so they should come quicker from now on. Hope Deaton wasn't OOC.