AN: So, reviewer QT05 has informed me that the Sheriff is named "John". I can't seem to find a canon source of confirmation, which is why I've been calling him "Robert"/"Rob". If the general opinion is that John is the way to go, though. I'll go back and change it. Let me know?

Warnings: Language

Disclaimer: I don't own "Teen Wolf".

Chapter Twenty-One
Wake Up

Awareness returns quickly, suddenly. A sharp intake of breath, full and dry and easy. Isaac is bolting upright, hands on his chest, his perfectly fine chest. All healed up. Just another scar on a body that already has too many. Which is when Isaac realizes that his shirt's been torn open, and every last one of them can see the scars. The years of abuse and torment and shame carelessly mapped out on his skin.

It's ugly, so damn ugly, and Isaac knows it.

He waits for the recoil, the disgust, the sneering. The inevitable revulsion. His dad had hated his scars; proof of Isaac's weakness, and his dad had always hated any sign of weakness. But it doesn't come. His pack doesn't turn away, avert their eyes, take their hands off his skin. In fact, they all rush in. There's a lot of nose nuzzling and hands petting and no small amount of licking, which Isaac is surprisingly okay with. It feels good. Like home—true home, not four walls and roof and never-ending fear. Like family, real family the way they were before his mom died and Camden starting acting more and more like Dad and then Camden was just gone and never coming back.

It feels like Pack.

"I was shot." The words feel weird on his tongue. There's something like shock settling in. Because. He was. He was shot. In the chest. He should be dying. He should be dead. But he isn't. He's perfectly fine. And that's kind of a big deal. He needs a second to wrap his head around it all. "I was shot."

"Don't do it again." Jackson growls angrily before licking a stripe of skin from Isaac's collarbone up to his ear. And even though there had been some serious cuddling earlier, it's still weird that Jackson fricking Whittemore—who has lived next door to him most of his life and has never once even pretended to give a shit about him—is being…affectionate? Is that the right word? Is this affection? Isaac isn't sure. Maybe it's just a pack, make sure the unit is still intact thing. Maybe he's reading this wrong.

"Seriously, not cool, man." Stiles says in the process of burying his face in Isaac's neck and nuzzling and sniffing and it tickles in a good way that makes something inside of him twist pleasantly.

"I killed the shooter." Scott proclaims with an edge of pride and a twist of shame, scraping his tongue across Isaac's jaw, up his cheek, and over his eyebrow. The touch of tongue is rough and strange but oddly enjoyable. Like the way his mom used to kiss his temple, like something family does, even though it sounds like some sort of weird sexual kink.

"Thank you?" It's the only thing he can think of. What does one say when their brother wolf informs you that he's killed the person who tried to kill you? Thank you doesn't seem to really cover it.

"Move." Derek snarls, and the pack moves so their Alpha can reach his hand out and haul Isaac to his feet again. And then pull him into a brief, but crushing, hug. "Don't you dare leave us like that again."

Isaac nods furiously against Derek's chest, and there are tears in his eyes that he'll die—for real—before he ever lets fall. He's learned the cost of tears is too high to be paid. Even if everything is different now, even if his father is dead. This is the man who killed him, Isaac isn't about to push the limits of Derek's patience. The consequences of disappointing Derek, Isaac fears, will be so much worse than anything his father ever did.

"Good." Derek hands him off to the pack for a massive group hug.

And, all in all, it's kind of absolutely, completely perfect.

The guy, the fucking kid, Lydia didn't know the name of? Isaac? The one who got shot? Who, not twenty minutes ago, was bleeding out and dying? Yeah, that one. He's getting up.

Lydia blinks slowly. Shock starting to wear off a little in the face of the completely unbelievable. Lydia is not a doctor, but she knows that people shot in the chest do not just get up. Live, sure, maybe. With proper medical attention fast enough. But spitting gunpowder into a GSW is not proper medical attention, plopping him down on the floor in an abandoned rail station is not proper medical attention. This is not the way the world works. It just isn't.

Suddenly, Derek is handing over Isaac to everyone else—and she'll work through the weirdness that is Jackson in the middle of a massive group hug and licking, licking, another guy after she gets over the not-deadness of Isaac—and heading towards her. Fear washes away most of the lingering dissociation. This is her, this is now, and this is happening. It's real, and it demands her immediate and full attention. Derek Hale, a suspected murderer covered in blood, is coming at her. And that is not something she can ignore in any way shape or form for any reason.

Jackson and Stiles detach themselves from the group, follow a few steps behind Derek. It looks natural, them being there. Like they follow Derek all the time. Maybe they do. Obviously, this group knows each other, and knows each other well. And there is so much more going on in Jackson's life that she didn't know about than she did. That stings. A bit.

"He's not dead." Lydia says when Derek's in front of her, just to cut off whatever it is he was going to say.

"No. He isn't." A casual shrug. Like it's perfectly normal. Like all of this is normal.

"You're covered in blood. You killed people." Lydia remains on the offensive, doesn't give Derek the chance to try and take over the discussion. She's fairly certain that she wouldn't like the topic very much. "Those people were in pieces."

"They tried to kill Isaac." A furrowing of his brow. "They almost succeeded."

"So you ripped them apart?" That's not a normal reaction.

"Yes. They came to my home, unannounced and unwelcome, and they shot my friend, unprovoked. And they would have gladly put a bullet in every last one of us, just because of what we are. So, yes. I killed them. Brutally. Before they could kill us."

Stiles' hand reaches out, hesitates, then rests gently on Derek's shoulder. Jackson just looks at her with pleading eyes, begging her to understand.

But she doesn't. She doesn't understand, because none of this makes any sense. Why the hell were those guys there? What did Derek mean "because of what we are"? At what point did Beacon Hills become the sort of place where people wander around with guns? And what the hell does any of this have to do with Jackson?

"Explain." Lydia grits out between her teeth, eyes viciously stabbing Jackson so he knows better than to even try and lie to her. "Everything."

"Derek?" Jackson asks, and Lydia has never heard him sound so meek. So…submissive. Jackson Walden Whittemore hasn't asked permission for anything since he was thirteen. But there's an unspoken question in that name, and he's asking for permission now.

Derek nods sharply, "I told you she was a part of this now." And then he's leaving, ducking into one of the train cars. Isaac and Scott share a look and trail after him.

"Jackson Whittemore, you joined a mother-freaking gang!" Lydia snaps. Because he did. He so did.

"What? No!" Jackson looks confused.

"Well. Kinda." Stiles shrugs, and looks amused. Lydia glares at Jackson. He joined a gang and didn't even realize it was a gang. Moron. "We prefer 'pack', if it's all the same to you."

"Pack. My boyfriend is part of a pack." Lydia processes this, and moves on. "Who the hell was that earlier? With the shooting at high school students?"

"Um. So…remember Allison? Your BBF? Scott's girlfriend?" Stiles grins awkwardly. "Her family? Turns out, they're all completely insane."

"Allison's family? What?"

"My god, Stilinski. In order, you moron." Jackson cuffs Stiles upside the head, but it lacks its usual wrath. "Look, Lyds. Long story short? Werewolves are real. Allison's family hunts them. We're all werewolves, so Allison's family wants to kill us."

"Dude," Danny pops up out of nowhere. "You are not a student of the simple break."

"Data overload." Stiles agrees with a sage nod.

Werewolves. Her boyfriend thinks he's a werewolf. She's in love with a crazy person. Lydia opens her mouth to say something to that effect when Jackson's eyes flash bright blue. Inhumanly blue. Danny's flit to gold in response, and his sneer has far too many teeth with far too many points. The finger Jackson flips is clawed.

And werewolves are real.

The transition is that simple. Lydia doesn't faint or scream or even gasp. She's a woman of science, of fact. She believes what she can see, and she can see this. Can see Jackson change from everything she knows into something she doesn't. And it explains so much.

"Those animal attacks last month, werewolves?"

"Derek's crazy uncle. We killed him." Jackson. Eyes on the ground.

"The reason Allison's dad hates Scott so much?"

"Werewolf, werewolf hunter. Werewolf dating werewolf hunter's daughter. Also, there might be some feelings about Peter killing Kate. Maybe. Even though we were totally not on his team. At all. We set him on fire!" Stiles. Gesturing hands.

"The guys with the guns?"

"Argent hunters. They want to kill us." Danny. Simple shrug.

"Why?"

"Remember that bit where I said Derek's uncle killed Allison's Aunt Kate? Weelll, Papa Argent didn't like that. So he called up everyone in the Argent Hunting phonebook and was like 'Hey, let's declare war on a couple of sixteen year olds and their brooding twenty-two year old Alpha'. Even though they totally started it." Stiles again.

"Wait, I haven't heard this bit. What're you talking about?" Jackson. Intent focus on Stiles, hand absently sliding into hers. Huh. Some things never change, lycanthropy or not.

"Kate Argent. Allison's aunt? Completely cuckoo for cocoa puffs. She's the bitch who started the Hale house fire. You know, the one that killed them all. So, understandably, Peter was a little miffed about the whole being burned alive and temporarily paralyzed thing. Then came the less understandable vicious murdering of everyone even slightly connected. And finally the, once again understandable, killing of Aunt Kate.

"So, in summary: we totally wouldn't be at war with the nutjobs, if nutjob the first hadn't burned the house down around the Hales. Totally their fault."

"Do you get paid for every extra word you stuff into a single breath?" Danny asks, eyebrow quirked and lips smirking.

"Nah. It's just…"Stiles' eyes dart around suspiciously before he leans closer. "This is a tv show. And I don't get enough screen time, man. So I monologue whenever possible."

The three of them burst into laughter. They are laughing. They're in the middle of a war—one Lydia can only assume they're losing, if random hunters are walking around taking shots at them on their own turf—and they're laughing at Stiles' inability to filter? Really?

How is this her life?

Scott is gaping at the sight before him. Body armor. Military fatigues. Guns.

Somehow he'd heard the word "war" and managed to overlook the obvious. Again. Because, of course, there would be guns. Of course, there would be more to this all than wolfing out and kicking ass when they were attacked. Of course, there would be a need for more protection than their healing naturally gave them—Isaac nearly died today because natural healing is not enough. Of course, they'd need to hide, amongst regular people, amongst the trees, anything to make them a harder target to hit. Of course, they'd need to be able to fight back from a distance.

But Scott hadn't realized. He thought it would all be out letting his control slip and his animal out, giving his wolf free reign to do what it had learned at Peter Hale's knee. He hadn't considered that there would be more to it than that. That he'd have to do more, be more. Because Derek doesn't need Scott to be an animal.

He needs Scott to be a soldier.

And Scott hadn't realized.

He can hear Jackson and Stiles and Danny filling Lydia in on all the details she'd been missing, and Scott wonders if that means that Derek is going to turn her too. Scott doesn't know how he feels about that. Doesn't know how he feels about any of this.

It had been so simple to say yes, he wanted to stay. So easy to agree to all of this, all of it, without even once considering what it would mean.

Derek is talking quietly to Isaac. Not so quietly that Scott couldn't hear them if he wanted, there's a not a lot that's that quiet these days. But he isn't listening. He kinda really wants to see Allison. Needs her to ground him. But he's covered in blood—and, Jesus, he's still covered in blood—and her father had publically tried to beat the shit out of him this morning.

And so much, too much, has happened today. Just one day.

Something else Scott hadn't pieced together when Derek said "war". That is would be more than the isolated scrimmages with the Peter Hale and the rare hunter attack. He hadn't realized just how…constant this would be. Hadn't realized that it would be one thing after another after another and then another before the next and the next. It's never-ending and overwhelming and crushing.

He wants Allison. He wants Allison like he wants to keep breathing.