Disclaimer: I don't own MTV's Teen Wolf or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This story is meant to fit into the canon events of season 4 until just before the end of 4x12, "Smoke and Mirrors" where it goes very AU. The premise is that Scott and co. escaped Kate in Mexico and return to Beacon Hills without the showdown we saw in the final episode where Kate is 'defeated.' In this au Derek still 'evolves', but Chris doesn't go with the Calaveras to track down Kate, but rather returns with the whole pack to Beacon Hills. – This is a Bobby Finstock/Chris Argent fic, with minor references to: Stiles/Derek & Lydia/Parrish here and there.
Warnings: Spoilers for seasons three and four and one or two vague illusions to things that have happened in season five. *Contains: sexual content, blood, guts, gore, canon appropriate violence, references to using alcohol as a coping mechanism in both past and present tenses, kidnapping. - There will be more warnings to come as the story progresses. There will be 40 chapters and this fic will update once a week.
Regress to my mean (and kiss me pretty)
Chapter Eight
The shift from sleep to wakefulness wasn't gradual or even staggered. It was like a switch had been flipped. He went from nothing to everything in point three seconds when his eyes snapped open and the sound of a heartbeat – distinctly not his own - hiccupped in its rhythm.
"Hey, hey- you're alright," Chris soothed, chair creaking as he leaned forward, knuckles firming into the edge of the mattress like he wanted to touch but couldn't quite bring himself to risk it. "I've got you."
He blinked, the motion exaggerated. Eyes clearing out the crusts of sleep and pillow-blur before looking down at himself, uncertain for a smattering of beats. Realizing he'd been laid out across his bed, covered in a thin blanket and nothing else. Bare skin more or less clean as a basin of dirty, red-stained water slosh-sloshed gently at the man's side.
And wow, really?
The connotations of that were just a little bit more than his uncaffeinated mind could take at the moment. Because first, that meant that someone probably had to carry his naked ass across the house and into his bed. Naked. As in without apparel. Naked. And in front of at least a good quarter of his Lacrosse team. His students for Christ sakes! And then the sponge bath. Which, honestly, was too much for him to dwell on right now. Especially if he was right about who'd done the actual sponging and-
Oh for the love of crap! Could his life get any more like a bad lifetime movie on the Women's network?!
"What happened?" he croaked, for once sounding about as horrible as he felt. Fingers splaying out, searching and fitful across the coverlet as blood-rimmed nails flashed damningly into view. Very much aware that all this was really just a smoke screen for the fact that he was drawing a big fat blank on the last few hours. That he had no idea how he'd gotten here or when he'd gotten home from his mound of paperwork or if-
"I could ask you the same question," Chris hedged, like he was holding something back. Absolutely nothing like the sly looks they'd started exchanging over the breakfast table at the diner for the past few months. Nothing like the banter that edged so close to flirtation he wasn't sure where the line between them stood anymore – or even if there was one. All that warm familiarity culled by a razor-edge of careful professionalism he'd never noticed before.
He hated it. Hated it because it felt like distance. Betrayal. Fear.
He blew out a long breath between his teeth before levering himself up against the head board – muscles screaming. Letting the sheet slide down to his navel as bruised toes wriggled free on the opposing edge.
"Well, then we are both going to be disappointed because I have no freaking idea."
He looked up at his ceiling, seeing an imprint of the night sky and a precarious quarter moon rather than the oddly-shaped water stain and uneven plaster. It was a weird sort of double-vison, only it didn't go away when he shook himself, scrunching his eyes closed for a handful of beats before opening them again. Hell, if he closed his eyes he might even be able to taste the tang of his own red trickling between his teeth. Hazing in and out like gun smoke and fog as Chris' face took shape in the gloom. Fierce, gun aimed and-
He jerked, electric.
"The field!" he blurted, remembering. Sitting bolt upright as his knee popped, nearly braining Chris in the face as the sheet fluttered back to earth and he was scrabbling at the covers for purchase. Frantic after the fact as the rusty taint of iron – iron from the javelins he'd thrown, killing one of them threatened to overwhelm him completely - "That woman! Crazy Cat woman!? You were there. She was trying to- the kids?! Are they okay? Is everyone still-"
The expression on the man's face flickered, shifting gears in pieces until a warm hand curled around his shoulder – weighty and calming – as the man leaned forward, mouth moving. Sending a fresh burst of his scent tumbling through the air. Worn leather. Dirt. Gun oil. And something that was uniquely Chris. Something he would recognize anywhere. Something that-
"They're fine, Bobby. You saved us, all of us. Don't-"
But he wasn't listening. Instead, his hand flew to his chest. Feeling the phantom sear of the dagger point piercing straight through. He twisted, desperate, heart pounding. Mindless of the sheets pooling in his lap and the swathe of pale freckled skin he was showing as he craned his neck, trying to see his back.
"That woman," he hiccupped. "Those things. I was dead. I felt it. How? I was dead!" he repeated, trailing off uncertainly, body thrumming with misplaced adrenaline a couple hours too late as he buried his fingers in the dark blue cotton down and tugged. Ramping up to what promised to be a truly spectacular panic attack as his breathing raced – shallow and pitchy at the close. "Did all that actually happen? Like with the claws and the crazy-"
The chair squeaked, a precursor to Chris leaning forward, before-
"Do you want the short answer or the long one?"
He glared.
Asshole.
Then glared harder, forgetting about all the reasons why he should be freaking out in favor of watching in real time as Chris' expression gradually morphed from humor - or maybe a thinly disguised emotional breakdown, it was hard to tell from this angle – to a full out frown that gained traction like a tidal wave. Racing for shore as the soft lines on the man's face sharpened and he knew – just knew – he was in for it a good ten seconds before the man even opened his mouth.
Because alongside of dragging him to bed and playing nurse-maid, it seemed as though Chris had also been nursing a not so insignificant amount of righteous rage to flavor his juvenile sense of humor that insisted on making corny jokes in the middle of his pre-mid-life crisis.
"Christ, Bobby. What were you thinking?" Chris rumbled lowly, like it could have been a snap if the words were sharper. "You had no idea what you were dealing with – who you were dealing with. You could have died! Do you have any idea what I would have done if you'd-"
And no.
Stop right there.
That was just unfair.
It wasn't like he'd asked for this!
"Well excuse me if I didn't come prepared for a Mexican standoff a'la the supernatural," he snipped, sarcasm dripping slow like molasses. Grated raw and exposed as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep his eyes front and center. Refusing to back down on this when he knew he was right. When he knew he'd done the right thing. The alternative hadn't even been an option.
What was he supposed to have done?
Turn tail and run?
Hell, no.
Not on his watch.
Not on his field.
Not with-
"I was in my office, finishing up paperwork!" he slapped back hotly, yanking at the sheets in his lap until they were a puddling fort of safety that made him feel a little less vulnerable. "Admin has been riding my ass about deadlines and I lost track of time. I was heading out for a coffee run when I heard- whatever that was. Actually, no. Fuck it. I want the WHOLE story. What the fuck was that?!"
The expression he got in return was more of a grimace than anything, like Chris knew how it sounded and hated himself just a little bit more when he forced the words out. Sounding like every shitty action movie ever where the hero sticks to his guns. Doing that stupidly attractive and stunningly overused: 'I can't involve you in the clusterfuck that is my life and you deserve better than me' tripe, right before the climax kissing shit that always tends to happen at dusk – facing a rolling horizon and-
Wait, did that make him the heroine?
Crap.
And okay, maybe he was letting his analogies get away from him a bit.
"It's complicated."
"I get that. But I'm still asking," he pressed, mashing his hands over his eyes until they flashed red and white. Blitzing sporadically in the corners of his retinas like internal lightning strikes. Feeling like he was being extraordinarily patient with this entire shit-show as Chris did his best to edge and deflect.
"I don't know if I'm the best one to explain," the man admitted. Confusing him as a rapid-fire burst of emotion and conflicting signals rippled through the air above their heads. He could smell them, he realized. The emotions. Chris. Breathing him in on a level that layered itself deep, anchored and still as the world kept spinning around them.
He'd heard someone once say that everything had a scent. That anger aired out like the bitter tart of freshly cast iron. And that love always took the scent of the thing that comforted you the most. That smelled like home and grass clipping and that freshly baked bread your mom used to make before she discovered what a bread machine was - and coincidentally didn't stop talking about it for the next thirty-seven years. But he'd thought it was all a bunch of hippie bullshit designed to find your inner-hug-a-tree spirit and sell more bad, tie-dyed t-shirts on 420.
Not so much, apparently.
Not when Chris was sitting in front of him, smelling like exhaustion and grief. Like one close call too many and indecision that curled like a slow, simmering flame already threatening to burn. Like spilled gasoline inches from a lit match. And every warm, comforting thing he liked to drown himself in on the bad nights and keep close on the others.
"How do you fit into all of this?" he asked softly, fingers flexing. Having to physically restrain himself from crawling across the mattress to rearrange the frown that'd up taken residence. "You aren't like them…but you aren't like the Sheriff, are you?"
He cocked his head, breathing it in as Chris' expression softened fractionally in surprise. Startled to realize there was more. Half hidden under the surface and yearning to be coaxed out and smoothed. There was internal conflict laced with a falling face-first sort of determination that made for a disturbingly heady combination. Something that made him flinch as much as it did preen with pride. Part of him saw it as proof. Proof of how strong his mate was. How, despite everything that told him to run, to distance himself, Chris had already chosen him. Accepted him. Wanted him. And the other part-
Wait.
What?
He forced a sneeze, trying to clear his head. The entire thing made him itch. Fighting the instinct to just pull the man in and forget about everything else. Forget about the people waiting outside, snooping around his living room. Forget about how much his life royally sucked right now. Forget about the paperwork he still had to finish and just roll Chris underneath him and press him down into the mattress until he didn't smell of anything other than him for the rest of his life. Sinking into every groove, every spare inch of him and just breathe.
Maybe forever.
He didn't realize Chris has been talking this whole time until the chair creaked – seriously, did everything he own creak? – leaving him mentally scrambling to catch up. Getting the just of it pretty quickly as the man basically gave him a brief overview of the Argent family tree and who the crazy cat-lady with the sharp claws actually was and whhhhoooboy.
Awkward.
"Hunting has been in my family for generations. As long as there have been wolves there have be hunters keeping them in check. Balanced. We make sure things like this – things of the supernatural variety - don't spill out into the normal world. Or try too, anyway. People getting caught in the crosshairs seems to be happening a lot lately. It wasn't always like this, but Beacon Hills is-"
"And am I a supernatural thing?" he broke in, less of a question then it was a fact. It was an assertion he was still coming to grips with, but figured was pretty obvious by this point considering he'd kind of died – as in had the deed to the ol' farm in the sky clutched in his bloody hands - and now didn't have a scratch on him. Not to mention he'd gotten attacked by a were-jaguar, also known as Kate fucking Argent, who rolled with a posse of animal warriors. And had just watched a good chunk of his Lacrosse Team get sharp and hairy.
"Yes."
"So…conflict of interest much?" he sing-songed, fighting the urge to knock himself out with something very heavy. Because honestly, consciousness was overrated and he was feeling vulnerable enough to start wounding with words if something in his life didn't start making sense. Like, pronto.
"Welcome to my life," Chris returned, chuckling darkly.
"No offence, but your life seems like shit," he returned, snippy but without the cruelty that could have tinted it as humor danced like a lit flame in the man's eyes.
And maybe it was because his world view had tilted more than seventy degrees in a truly horrifying direction since yesterday, but he found himself choking on a full out belly laugh. Contagious and clean as Chris snorted and followed him down, just like he knew he would.
They had to.
The alternative was crying or maybe throwing up and personally-
He'd take manly, slightly hysterical laughter any day.
He didn't realize he was scenting the air, chin tilted up until Chris caught his eye and he jerked like he'd been burned. Not even realizing he was doing it as embarrassment slithered like shame across his cheeks.
God, what the hell was he doing?
Get a hold of yourself, Finstock, you aren't a god damned animal.
"Uh. What's cooking?" he asked after a painfully awkward handful of beats. "You order take out from the diner or something?"
"No, that's probably Stiles, everyone has been up most of the night so Liam, Lydia and Parrish hit up the grocery store as soon as it opened."
"You let Stilinski loose in my kitchen?" he repeated, the idea not quite computing. Feeling a distinct pool of dread curl in his stomach as he pictured his oven spontaneously combusting. Setting the drapes on fire as the utter spaz attack ran around with a fire extinguisher that never quite managed to reach the flames. Legs flying out from under him as an entire carton of eggs smashed across the tiles, catapulting him out through the sliding glass door and killing his grass with the spewing remnants of the extinguisher.
"He's actually pretty good," Chris replied, putting the brakes on the nightmare currently unfolding in his mind's eye. "He's been cooking for his dad since grade school. From what I understand, he's basically pack-mom when it comes to stuff like this. Things get a bit crazy around the full moon, not to mention werewolves just eat a ton regardless."
He blinked, thinking he might have understood a good quarter of that before he grunted and decided he didn't care. His life was currently in shambles and he honestly had no time or energy to be sympathetic to anyone else's crazy right now.
"I will not be responsible for my actions if he blows up my kitchen," he grumbled, swallowing thickly. "I don't care how well he can flip on omelet." Surprised to realize he was almost drooling. Suddenly desperately hungry as he bit off a groan and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Choosing not to comment when the man side eyed him like he knew exactlywhat he was thinking.
Which, was really unfair by the way.
He was still surveying the landscape of his floor as the aches and pains in his muscles gradually sorted themselves out. Half-wondering if he even had any clean clothes when Chris cleared his throat.
"Look, Bobby, I'm not sure what's going on with you or why. How it started or if it's ever going to stop. But I know you're confused - angry - god knows I understand," the man told him, fingers knuckling down his scalp with a sigh. Oblivious to the way the sun was slanting through the blinds, highlighting the odd silver hair in his stubble in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Unsure of what to do with the observation when he realized his hands were physically aching to touch. Wanting to bury them in the man's short hair and smooth it flat. Smearing his scent deep into the man's skin. Breathing in the scent of him, nose buried in the crook of his neck – calming and sure.
There was recognition thrummed inside him now.
Animal and baser.
Almost like-
"I know this is a lot to take in, but I need to know one thing. That thing you were going through? When I came over and you were- was this it?" Chris asked, words tight like he was trying not to lose them. Like he was steeling himself for something as the hunter captured his gaze and held it fast.
And yeah, he could see why. He'd taken lacrosse balls to the junk without protection that he'd rather hit repeat on than tackle that clusterfuck of a question. The hard part was it wasn't even about reluctance either. It was that he honestly didn't know anymore. He could guess a fair bit of it was, but at the same time it felt – well – like it'd been a long time coming. Like it had been something he'd been waiting on his entire goddamned life and as much as he wanted to run from it, he knew, oh god he knew-
"Yes- no?" he sighed, molars grinding together as the words came out about as shitty as he'd expected them to. All choppy and stream of conscious-style as he tried to make some sense out of the past few months and get it out in a hundred words or less. "Maybe? I think so, but honestly? I don't have a clue."
But Chris just nodded, pleased. Hell, he even caught a glimpse of a smile in there somewhere as the man's hand clasped his shoulder roughly. Catching him so off guard he nearly fell over.
"Good. If you had a half decent answer I wouldn't have believed it," Chris remarked, leaving him with the distinct impression he'd just been conned as the hunter's ridged posture relaxed in increments. "We should probably get out there. Deaton should have arrived by now and the others are waiting."
There was silence for a while after that. Sharing it equally between them as the soft sounds of hushed conversation floated in from the living room. Almost painfully normal before he finally stirred, stretching a bit as his stomach growled. This time a bit too insistently for him to ignore as he groaned. Half-heartedly weighing his options between food and having to put on pants before the sound of Stiles yodeling: "Breakfast time, chumps! Come and get it while it's hot!" basically made the decision for him.
"I suppose it's time to face the music," he muttered.
It wasn't until he was halfway through the search for pants - for some reason just accepting the fact that Chris was going to stay there, half-slouched in the chair and watching him through the fan of his lashes – that something only just occurred to him.
"Wait, why do we need a vet?"
Then, sometime later-
"You think I am a WHAT?!"
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be more to come, stay tuned.
