Stiles stared up at Scott, trying to ignore the stinging pain coming from his chest. The blood was cooling on his skin, congealing into tiny puddles of gore. He was too terrified to move his hand and swipe it away; Scott's look of rage was pinning him down. He felt small and insignificant, which proved that this wasn't the real Scott, wasn't his Scott.
Scott never made him feel worthless the way his darkness did.
"I—" Stiles began, but the breath was suddenly knocked out of him as Scott's fist collided into his jaw. He spat out a wad of blood; his face was searing with pain and a dark bruise was no doubt forming there already. Stiles flinched as Scott's hands drew close to his face, but now the act had turned soothing as he cupped either side of Stiles' face, cradling it in a mocking example of gentleness.
"You what, Szczesny?" Scott asked venomously. His thumbs scraped across Stiles' pale face, coming dangerously close to his eyes, as if he was contemplating gouging them out. He smiled when Stiles failed to respond. "Oh come on now, why is your tongue failing you now? Have you dried up that well of excuses from repeated use? Give me one little lie, one pathetic justification for doing this to Scott."
Scott had never been able to say Stiles' true name. He had often sputtered over the pronunciation of it when they were kids, and his face always used to flush so brightly when he flubbed up. Stiles would laugh it off, saying that Parseltongue was easier to speak than Polish before earning a timid smile from Scott.
But here, the syllables rolled off of his tongue in sharp, quick precision, never stumbling over the name. Stiles frantically wondered if the darkness controlling Scott could find his friend's memories, let alone read his mind.
"I didn't want to go out alone," Stiles whispered. "Your mom wanted you to spend time with her relatives over the break so I barely got to see you. I was lonely, and—and Dad was taking on extra shifts. Then he got the call about the body and I thought, 'Me and Scott need to see this!' I knew that you had to be home so I…" His words trailed off, leaving the rest to be implied.
Scott was watching Stiles carefully. "For once, your heart was telling the truth," he said. "Still, it doesn't excuse your actions. You turned him into this,"—and here Scott displayed his claws before raking them down Stiles' cheek—"because you were a selfish little slut."
"It's ironic that you're complaining about it," Stiles spat out. "You wouldn't exist in the first place if I hadn't been 'selfish'."
Scott laughed, all warmth drained from it. It slammed into Stiles like a brick wall, and he shuddered from the icy feeling that had nothing to do with his clammy, drenched body.
"I always existed," Scott growled. "Before that night and long before you fucked him up with your 'friendship'. I was conceived the moment when poor, pathetic Scotty couldn't stop Daddy from berating Mommy with his cruel words. It was that inkling of helplessness that turned into resentment over the years, but Scotty believed he was too good, too noble to display such qualities. He had to be the good example for the rest of society. He had to restrain wild cards like you when all he wanted was to get revenge against the world." Scott smiled, baring his teeth at Stiles, who was looking at him with disbelief. "Darkness like this isn't born overnight—or from being turned into a monster. The full moon just brought me to the surface."
Stiles was speechless. His mind was forming a blank when it came to a response to this confession. He felt boneless, incapable of moving even if he wanted to. He didn't want to believe those venomous words, but what it was true? Stiles loathed his newfound doubt.
Nothing made sense anymore.
All of a sudden, the sound of something whooshing through the air was heard, and then a roar of pain from Scott. He was off of Stiles instantly, stumbling back as he ripped out a bolt from his shoulder. Stiles scrambled to his feet, trying not to reopen the wounds on his chest. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he nearly fell back on his ass when Allison came beside him, gripping his elbow as she held him in an awkward side hug. She had already notched another bolt onto her crossbow, aiming it at Scott's torso.
"Sorry," Allison said unapologetically, "I just couldn't stay out of this one."
Scott threw the bloodied bolt onto the ground. His eyes were glowing yellow, fangs elongated and glistening in the light.
"So much for staying out of it," Stiles said weakly. His head slumped against her shoulder. "Not that I'm complaining."
"He's still in there," Allison said, watching Scott. "We just have to bring him to the surface." She aimed at his leg and shot off another bolt. It sunk into Scott's leg, and Stiles winced when he saw it at an angle. The bolt was sticking out the other end, having penetrated through both flesh and bone. Scott roared as blood erupted from his leg. He reached down, and ripped the bolt free, causing more blood to spray out. It speckled the floor with crimson. Scott was crouching now, his clawed hand pressed over his gaping wound. His eyes were fixed on Stiles, glaring at him with such taint, such vile anger. Stiles felt nauseous.
"Allison, stop," Stiles whimpered. Allison blinked. Her crossbow was still pointed at Scott.
"Stiles, I'm not going to kill him," she replied. "But I have no choice; I have to subdue him."
"No," Stiles argued. His body felt heavy and his knees weak. Allison noticed this, and helped lower him to the ground. "No, I need to help him. I need to do this. Please."
Allison looked at Scott, and then back at Stiles. "He's not himself right now. You realize that, right? He'll kill you in this state."
"No he won't," Stiles said. "This is Scott we're talking about."
Allison hesitated. She gave him a quick nod. "I'll watch your back."
"I know you will."
Stiles bit his lip as he crawled over to Scott. Spots of blood appeared underneath him as a few of his cuts reopened, causing him to hiss in pain.
"Scotty?" he whispered gently. "Wake up in there; I know you can hear me. Scott, come back."
Getting shot in the leg was not a pleasant experience, but the pain did help Scott regain an ounce of control. It was enough to stop his darkness from shredding Allison alive, from causing Stiles more pain.
When he heard Stiles' confession he wanted to scream at him, telling him that it wasn't his fault. Even though Stiles would (and could) wrangle him into one of his insane plans, Scott always went along with it willingly. He was never forced.
He wanted to go with Stiles into the woods that night. Yes, he had been mad and terrified of what the consequences had done to them, but he didn't regret going with Stiles. Scott's mind ran wild with the possibilities of the alternatives: Stiles could've been the one who was bitten. Stiles could've been coerced by Peter to become a killer.
Scott's claws were out. His hands were shaking as Dark Scott fought back for control. This isn't your fight, my darling, it whispered in his head. If you be good and let go, I'll let you have him. I'll let you touch him with human fingers instead of wolf ones. The kisses can be tender, though I much prefer those dirty, breathless ones. He enjoys them too, though he'll never admit it. I understand how much you love him; that's why you're resisting me so much. But he has to be taught a lesson. He's been an evil, greedy boy who's caused you so much pain—
"No, that's not true!" Scott yelled. He plunged his claws into his thighs, and he hissed from the unbearable pain. Stiles was crawling over to him, moving minutely on his hands and knees. He halted when Scott stabbed himself, his eyes wide open.
"Scott?"
"STAY BACK!" Scott screamed. Stiles gave him a startled look, but continued making his way over to him.
Look at this! Even he knows that he has to be punished! He knows what he's done, what he's done to you. Just let me—
"No!" Scott cried. His claws had sunk all the way into his flesh. Blood continued to flow out of his wounds, and his eyes stung from the unthinkable, relentless pain. But every second he held them in was another second that his darkness wasn't mauling Stiles to bloody pieces.
"Scott," Stiles said. Scott blinked rapidly. Stiles was kneeling in front of him. His hands were covering Scott's, and he had a desperate, pleading look in his eyes. "Scott, stop hurting yourself. Please, take them out."
"I can't," Scott sobbed. He smelled rather than felt the tears rolling down his cheeks. "I can't, or he'll hurt you."
"Come on Scotty," Stiles argued. His thumbs made soothing circles on Scott's hands, and he shuddered from the comfort. He didn't deserve it, not after all of the damage that he'd caused him from today alone. "Are you seriously telling me that you can't take him on? Is this really the best you can do?"
Yeah, sighed the voice sarcastically, is this the best you can do? Come on, take those things out. Otherwise you'll give yourself scars.
"I can't," repeated Scott. He saw Allison out of the corner of his eye. She was watching them with curious intent, her crossbow raised but not directly pointed at him. He took that as a small sign of faith.
"Scott," Stiles said, "Listen to me. I don't care about what he made you do. Just forget about it all; it wasn't your fault."
"Don't you remember what I did to your back?" Scott whispered miserably. "Those are never going to heal."
"You didn't do that to me. I just pissed him off because I didn't run away."
"My hands did that—"
"But they've done other things too!" Stiles protested. His suddenly grabbed Scott's face and drew him close. His thumbs wiped away the tears that were refusing to cease. "They protected and saved countless people! They're selfless hands that would never hurt anyone on purpose! What they did to me against your will was just a little blip, alright? It doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things."
"It does matter," Scott murmured. "I hurt you. I can't just ignore just because I did a million good deeds. They're not going to erase the times that I tortured my best friend."
Silence followed this confession. Scott and Stiles stared at each other; the darkness was still rattling off excuses and lies, anything to take away Scott's control. Scott ignored him. His felt his legs going numb.
"Please take your claws out," Stiles said softly. He pressed his forehead against Scott's. The werewolf could feel the heat coming off of his friend. There was fear, determination, and endearment rolling off of him in a confusing, emotional wave.
"What if I—"
"You won't."
Slowly, Scott withdrew his claws. He swore and gritted his teeth. The wounds around the claws had healed, trapping them inside. Pulling them out was like ripping out teeth. It took several minutes for them to be fully worked out. Scott gasped loudly. He felt the familiar burn and euphoria as the bloody holes in his thighs began to stitch themselves back together.
"He's going to try and come back," Scott said. "I need you to move away. Please Stiles, I need to do this. I have to stop him, once and for all."
"I know," Stiles agreed. "But you'll need some motivation if you plan to pull through all of this."
Scott didn't have enough time to process his words before he felt Stiles' lips on his.
It was radically different from all of the times Dark Scott had forced himself on Stiles. For one, Stiles was the one to initiate it. It wasn't bruising or cruel, for another. His darkness always took this intimate gesture and twisted it into a punishment.
When Stiles kissed him, it felt like a reward. It felt like something he deserved to keep, to need, to want without feeling guilt.
Scott was reluctant to draw away, but he felt his darkness screaming at him. It wanted to pervert this gift, his reason to hold on and fight back. He needed to withdraw while it was still pure. Scott broke the kiss, and heard the whining loss coming from Stiles.
"I think I can stop him now," Scott said. "I need you to step back, though."
"I'm not going anywhere," Stiles replied, grinning faintly. "Besides, I have a few choice words that I want to say to the fucker."
