"No! That's crazy, there has to be something else."
"Stiles, there's a reason she's a werecoyote, she's a survivor. And right now you're the only one who can give her a fighting chance."
Stiles rakes a hand through his hair his eyes darting around the room for something anything. But there's nothing, he's got no clever plan to save her this time, there's no way out of this. His eyes fall back to Malia, her breathing has been reduced to a harsh rasping sound, it sounds and looks painful as her lungs claw for breath. Stiles leans over the table, pulling the jacket up higher beneath her chin, and brushing the back of his hand over her forehead, tenderly.
He leans away from her, bile rising up the back of his throat, "I can't—I can't lose her, Deaton." He chokes out.
"You're not going to lose her, Stiles. You just need to trust me."
Stiles brushes the back of his hand across his mouth, and clenches his eyes shut for a second before he consents. "O.K. But you're gonna have to walk me through this." He says gruffly, before clearing his throat.
"Take the knife and make a small cut about five inches above the burn, not deep just enough to draw blood."
"I was afraid you were gonna say that," Stiles jokes flatly, as he reaches out a shaky hand for the knife.
He positions the knife over her arm and takes a steadying breath, willing his hands to stop shaking. He licks his lips, his eyes darting back to Malia's face. Then he reaches out with his free hand and strokes her cheek with his thumb.
"It's all gonna be O.K." He promises her, before he gently drags the blade across her skin. Black blood spills over the blade and a wispy green-hued vapour starts rising from the wound, curling in the air. "Deaton, she's-she's bleeding…smoke."
"Whatever you do don't inhale it!" Stiles jumps back from the table and snags a dishtowel from the nearby stove and tosses one at the werewolf standing in the corner. Securing the towel over his mouth and nose he moves back to the table. "Mix the salt with the water and pour it over the cut."
Stiles flushes out the cut with the salt water, temporarily stemming the smoke.
"Now what?" He barks through the dishtowel.
"Under the smoke, is she still bleeding black?"
Stiles nods, "Yes."
"Wrap the cut with the dishtowel full of nutmeg and honey, make sure it's in full contact with the wound. Don't do it too tight we need to draw out all the venom."
Stiles presses the poultice to the wound, and carefully secures it in place. "What's next?"
"We've got to get her heart pumping faster. You're gonna have to take a pinch of cayenne pepper and put it under her tongue."
His hands fumble as he pops open the bottle and reaches in to pinch out a tiny lump of cayenne pepper. Tilting her chin up, he gently parts her lips and slips it beneath her tongue.
"Got it." He confirms, as he gently tips her chin down.
"Now drip a little honey into her mouth, it'll boost her immune system."
He carefully feeds her a capful of honey, drawing it across the seam of her lips with the pad of his thumb.
Drawing away his thumb he nods, "What now?"
"Now we wait. The fractal pattern is it still spreading?"
Stiles swallows hard, "Yes."
"How bad?"
"Another inch."
"She's a fighter, Stiles."
Stiles crowds over Malia, combing his fingers through her hair, his free hand slipping down to clutch hers. Leaning in he whispers in her ear, "C'mon, baby, stay with me." He pleads. Time drags on like nails on a chalkboard until, Deaton finally breaks the silence.
"O.K. Stiles, carefully peel back the layers of the dishtowel and tell me what colour her blood is."
Stiles brushes off his honey smeared fingers on the front of his shirt, and bites his lip as he carefully parts the dishtowel, the greenish vapour has all but stopped and the blood spilling down her arm is a brilliant crimson.
"It's red." He sighs in relief.
"That's good, Stiles. That's very good. How does she look?"
"Still really pale," he touches her forehead. "She's a little warmer though." He says thoughtfully. Then her fingers twitch beneath his. Stiles jolts in surprise. "Her hand is moving!"
"If she starts to regain consciousness, then don't let her move. I'm ten minutes away. Try and get her to lie still." Deaton instructs before the line disconnects.
Malia groans low in her throat and her head sluggishly shifts from side to side. Her jaw tenses, forehead scrunching up as she lets out another low pitched whine. He slips his arm under her shoulders, and tucks her into his chest.
Stiles tugs the dishtowel down off of his face, "Hey—hey, Mal, It's alright. I've got you." He whispers.
Her eyes shift rapidly beneath her eyelids for a moment or two, before slowly cracking open. She blinks blearily, peering up at him half-lidded.
Stiles sucks in a breath, and stares down into her gorgeous, weary eyes.
She blinks rapidly, parting her lips to speak, "St-" she manages to grate out before her jaw seizes and she moans in pain.
"Easy, don't try to move, O.K?" She lets out a soft hum of agreement. Stiles sighs in relief, as he holds her close.
"You scared the hell out of me, y'know?" he breathes out, tucking a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear. Malia just stares up at him, blinking wearily.
There is another low painful moan, but this time it's not coming from Malia. Stiles' head whips around and he spot the green-eyed werewolf, hunched over, holding his head in his hands, the dishrag falling from his grasp.
Stiles squints at him cocking his head to the side. "Hey, buddy, you alright?"
The werewolf slaps his hand down on the countertop, fracturing the sheen granite surface. Stiles stiffens. The werewolf snarls and snaps as he gripping his head, his fangs elongating, saliva frothing around his mouth.
Stiles carefully slips his arm out from beneath Malia, and sets her head down on the table top. "Don't move." He instructs, as he ducks down and seizes his abandoned bat.
The werewolf growls as it slowly rises up to it full height. Stiles squares his shoulders, his hands tensing on the bat, as he stands pitted between the werewolf and the table.
The werewolf's once handsome face was now twisted, and mottled with scars and bulging veins. It's eyes that had once glowed amber had shifted, settling into two different colours. One of its eyes had morphed into a frosty blue and the other had settled into a blazing green. Stiles had never seen two different eyes on any supernatural creature before and the ferocious look of the creature before now, him makes his skin crawl.
As it spoke, the same eery green smoke from Malia's wound, poured from its mouth, "Ní mór duit a bheith cur isteach, buachaill! (You should not have interfered, boy!)