The afternoon tripped by rather quickly for Stiles. He hardly noticed an hour and a half slipping away in the back of the local Burger King, watching Jackson stuff himself with an obscene amount of flame-broiled Whoppers as they laughed and joked, catching up on each other's lives and the goings-on between them and those who filled their homes and hearts. Pheelan joined in too but spent much of the time glancing Stiles way with concern in all the lines of his body. He felt a bit off himself and it was more than just the dregs of being pulled back through the circle. He felt cold, damp, like he'd just come in from the snow, and he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched despite knowing, knowing that there was nothing there.
By the time the three had gotten back to the Sheriff's house it seemed again that he had lost more time – he remembered little of what had been talked about though he could guess at it. More than anything he was left with the impression of growing unease, of some thing hovering just beyond his shoulder, small, dark eyes on the back of his neck, and it made him nervy and slightly irritable, something he tried to push down and away when his dad woke up and they all sat for a bit of an old baseball game, trading conversation back and forth about everything and nothing at all. Jackson regaled him with stories of his time in London, his work and travels, but for his part Stiles was mostly quiet, and all of them seemed painfully aware of that fact.
As evening began to fall Stiles sent Phee and Jackson to dig up the Stilinski's folding table and battered, well-worn deck of cards while he commandeered the kitchen, filling bowls with popcorn and pretzels, stirring together a yogurt-based dill dip and a pitcher of blackberry-muddled lemonade. His mood lightened a bit as he rattled around in the cabinets, the strange weight lying across his shoulders and the back of his neck lessening until he was able to breathe again without a tightness in his chest, and by the time he joined the others around the beat-up little table he had a smile on his face again. Sitting between his father and his wolf, his good friend across from him, he abruptly found himself feeling better than he'd felt in a very long time.
He might hate to admit it, even to himself, but there was something about being home that made him feel safe, even though he never thought it would. He'd never meant to come back, but the longer he stayed the harder it was getting to think about leaving again. He knew this place, knew these people, even if he hated some of them…
Pushing those thoughts away, irritated that they were coming to him so frequently, coming to him at all, he let himself sink into the play of the cards, the easy back and forth between the four of them that was comfortable and normal, like they did it every day, slapping each other's hands, kicking shins beneath the table, jostling, joking – just being together and enjoying each other's company. After a game of poker, which the Pheelan won soundly, and about six hands of Euchre, the Sheriff decided to call it a night, popping one last pain pill and heading off to bed. The wolves started up a halfhearted game of Snap while Stiles cleaned up, loading the dishwasher and tossing the remnants of their decimated snack-age.
He could feel his energy quickly building up again, thick and hot and bubbly in his stomach like boiling oil, snapping in his fingers, and he felt lighter on his feet than he had all day. He felt… good, and part of him knew that he shouldn't, that this mood swing wasn't right and that the things he was seeing and hearing and feeling weren't… hell maybe weren't even real, but for the time being it was just so nice, so calming that he didn't care. A pang of guilt hit him for that – he knew Jackson was dealing with a boatload of shit right now, could feel the hurt and heartache in him that he was trying so hard to bottle up and shove away…
It gave him an idea.
Ignoring the curious glances he got from both wolves, he headed quietly upstairs, careful not to wake his father whom he could already hear snoring through the door. It took him a minute of deep excavation through his trunk to find what he was looking for, but he eventually came up with a small, dented tin, the kind sold for storing loose tobacco but that teenagers used to stash their pot. Hiding it in his palm, he made his way down to the living room, his Cheshire grin giving him away almost immediately.
"What've you got?" Pheelan asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he zeroed in on that hand that Stiles held behind his back.
With a wicked smirk, Stiles brought it out with a flourish, flicking the lid of the tin open and tilting it towards them so that they both could see. Pheelan glanced inside and skimmed a quick, questioning look up at Stiles but Jackson was more curious, reaching out and selecting one of the small blue candies inside, rolling it between his fingers.
"I don't get it," he said, looking to Stiles for an explanation. "Jolly Ranchers?"
"They're poppers," Phee offered from across the table, sweeping the cards towards his chest and shuffling them into a neat stack. "Werewolf roofies."
Jackson cocked a judgmental eyebrow. "You're drugging candy now?"
Stiles shrugged. "Easier than carrying around a bottle of aconite alcohol."
"Wow," he deadpanned. "You've become the reason parents preach stranger danger. Congratulations Stilinkski, you're officially a walking cliché."
Pheelan snorted cheekily, but when Stiles eyeballed him he immediately cleared his throat and straightened up. "So… what?" he asked, "You wanna go clubbing?"
"I'm down," Jackson answered immediately, and Stiles wasn't surprised. The wolf was practically vibrating with suppressed distress, everything about him begging for a distraction as he desperately tamped down on his heartache and tried not to think. "Could use a drink, aconite or no."
"Jungle?" Stiles proposed, before reconsidering. "Or we could drive over to Chelsea."
"Nah, the Jungle's cool," Jackson replied, getting to his feet and grinning salaciously as he slipped on his old bravado like a familiar coat. "I used to go with Danny. And I'm gonna get hit on either way, so…"
"Yeah yeah yeah," Stiles grinned, shoving the wolf chummily on the shoulder. "You're everyone's type."
Tossing a piece of the candy into his mouth, he offered one to Pheelan, who took it with the ease of having experienced them before. Cocking an eyebrow at Jackson, he grinned encouragingly while the wolf considered, laughed when he finally bit the proverbially bullet and popped his own piece, rolling it around on his tongue with a look of surprise at the sweet, fruity flavor.
"Don't chew it," Stiles warned, "That way it won't kick in good till we get there." Pushing the tin into his back pocket, he pulled his keys out of nowhere and spun them around his finger. "Let's do this!"
XXX
"Why are we here?" Scott whispered in Allison's ear as they waited in the quickly growing line outside of the Jungle. "I mean, it is a gay bar."
Allison shushed him under her breath, giving him a subtle shove with her shoulder. "We're here because it's the only club in town and Lydia needs some cheering up," she muttered quietly, hoping that the red-headed Banshee in front of her wouldn't hear. "We all do. So just be nice all right? She got hurt today, even if she won't admit it."
Glancing back over her shoulder, she let her gaze light on each of the pack who waited behind her, all of them except Peter, and her eyes lingered on the last, the Alpha who slouched bitterly against the brick wall at the back, his own stare far away.
"And I don't think she was the only one."
"I just… I don't know how to talk to him anymore," the young man at her side mumbled, and she felt a twinge of sadness shoot through her. Reaching out, she wrapped her arm around Scott's waist and drew him in close to her side, hooking her chin over his shoulder and sinking in to the heat of him pressed all along her side, comforting in the damp chill that had fallen as the sun set.
"I know," she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder in the way she knew he liked. "I don't either. But… maybe that's a good thing."
"How?" Scott choked, and his voice cracked so painfully in the middle of that short, simple word that it practically broke her heart. "How can any of this be good?"
"He's back," she whispered, some of her own pain coming through the words as she tried to explain. "That's a good thing, isn't it? He's different now, but…" Allison sighed. She wasn't sure how to make this better, wasn't sure what to do or say. "Maybe…" she tried again, "Maybe we all need to learn something new. Maybe we need to give up on the past and try the future out. We'll play it by his rules for a while and figure out how to move forward from there. Ok?"
Scott just nodded, looking forlorn, and she had just reached up to press a reassuring kiss to his cheek when Lydia huffed an irritated little 'finally' and stepped up to hand the bouncer her ID.
"And the rest of these," she said with an impatient little wave, including the eight other pack members behind her.
When she'd announced that evening that she needed a drink and a distraction, none of them had been stupid enough to try and resist. Instead they'd just followed along behind her like sheep as she stuffed them into 'acceptable' club attire and ushered them into hers and Derek's vehicles. Not even the Alpha seemed to have the wherewithal to deny her. Only Peter had escaped, touching her lightly on the elbow and prescribing a brand of Scotch into her ear before disappearing to wherever it was he still wandered off to sometimes… and likely where he'd been most of the morning. Whatever sway the Banshee held over the older man, whatever bond their strange relationship had forged over the years, it seemed that it only went so far.
The bouncer, however, apparently wasn't as immune, because whatever Lydia had said, whatever VIP code word she'd spoken, had him waving the rest of the pack in through the doors, stamping their hands with a small UV triangle that would glow beneath the bar lights as they passed, foregoing any other ID checks. Good thing too, because the twins weren't quite legal yet, still seven months away from their twenty-first birthdays. Allison grabbed Scott by the wrist, pulling him along through the dark and noise of the crowded club, following Lydia all the way to the back where she was ushered into an empty booth by a silent, smiling employee. The entirety of the pack followed suit, just enough room for all of them to squeeze into the wide, cushioned bench seat curved around an even wider table, and Isaac wasted no time in starting them off, ordering a beer for himself and a fruity pink cocktail for both Violet and Lily.
It was silly really but it was still tradition, and it was one that made Allison feel warm and content inside. The wolves didn't really need to drink, weren't affected by the alcohol, but whenever one of their human friends or pack members needed a night out at the bar they were as supportive as they could be, ordering something they liked the taste of just to keep up appearances. Erica and Boyd both went for a Blue Moon because they enjoyed eating the oranges that came wedged onto the side of the glass, and even Derek joined in, though he missed the spirit of the thing by asking for a harsh brand of cheap vodka just so he could punish himself with the burn. Still, it was a bonding sort of thing, and feeling the need to take it one step further, to reinforce the connection they all shared, Allison ordered a round of shots along with her own drink.
They could all use a clink and a toast, to see their own movements mirrored in the one across from them as they drank.
"Can I get you anything else?" their waiter asked politely, pen poised above the little notepad he'd taken from his back pocket.
"Two fingers of Lagavulin."
Allison brought a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Only Lydia could order top-shelf Scotch so sweetly and decorously. Apparently the Banshee had taken Peter's recommendation to heart and intended to drown her sorrows this night. Allison reached out a hand to touch Lydia on the shoulder, ready start the girl talk grieving portion of the evening in the hopes that they could circumvent any serious intoxication – not that Lydia ever got sloppy – but before she could open her mouth to ask if the red head was all right (the standard opening question for these things), an achingly familiar laugh rang out from across the bar, painfully clear through a heartbeat's pause in the music.
"Oh. My. God," Erica bit out.
"Are you kidding me?" Scott whimpered.
"Of course," Lydia muttered, and her words were desolately miserable. Glancing up at the waiter who had paused beside the table, following the pack's gaze across the floor to where Stiles, Pheelan, and Jackson all sat in a booth of their own, Lydia passed up a crisp, one hundred dollar bill. "Do me a favor? Leave the bottle."