The Ominous Silence

by MitchPell

Five times Scott's asthma almost killed him and one time it did. Chapter 1 - The First Attack: Scott & Rafael Chapter 2 - Roxy's Attack: Scott, Melissa, & Sheriff Chapter 3 - Stiles's Birthday: Scott, Stiles, & Sheriff Chapter 4 - Lacrosse Practice: Scott & Stiles Chapter 5 - Raving: Scott, Deaton, & Derek Chapter 6 - Status Asthmaticus: Scott, Mason, & Melissa

Chapter #1 - The First Attack

Raf sighed with relief as he threw the car in park and killed the engine. He sat there for a moment, leaning back against the headrest, and allowing his eyes to drift close. He was so god-damned tired. Between Scott refusing to sleep through the night and all the bullshit at work, he was beyond stressed and completely worn out. It had taken all of his considerable willpower to not hole up on the break-room couch and sleep instead of coming home. Unfortunately, Melissa had the late shift tonight. In fact, she was already gone, and with childcare being akin to a second mortgage, they couldn't afford to keep the sitter longer than was strictly necessary.

Letting out another long-suffering sigh, Raf undid his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. He moved slowly up the walk and front porch steps, grimacing as the wood creaked beneath his feet. He was hoping, praying even, that Scott still might be asleep. His naps usually didn't run this long, but if there was any chance, Raf didn't want to risk making a lot of noise. Luck was not working in his favor, for as soon as he opened the door Scott came bounding out of the living room. He paused in the archway, a large stuffed dog clenched in his hand, before a big smile pulled at his lips. Despite his weariness, Raf couldn't help but smile in return.

"Whatcha got there, Bud?" he asked, forcing a level of pep into the question.

"Dalmatian," he squealed, as he held the toy out for Raf to see before cuddling it to his chest, his little body twisting back and forth as he hugged it.

"A dalmatian! That's cool," he said as he glanced around the kitchen and hallway. "Where's Naomi?"

"She had go pee," he enthused, which caused Raf to chuckle. "Come play with me, Daddy," Scott wheedled as he inched a step back into the living room.

"Just give me a minute, Bud," Raf replied as he pulled out a kitchen chair, so he could sit down and take off his shoes.

He had just tossed them toward the door when Naomi came down the hall from the bathroom. "Hey," he greeted as she entered the kitchen. She and Melissa had become quick friends while in nursing school and were now co-workers at the hospital. She babysat for them when she was able, watched Scott for a handful of hours when his and Melissa's schedules required it and she was available.

"Raf," she replied cordially. That's the way she always was with him, cordial and stiff. It was obvious she didn't care much for him, but for the life of him he didn't know why.

"Thanks for watching him for us," he said as he leaned back in his chair.

"No problem. He's an awesome little guy, and I'm happy to help out."

He nodded, giving her a tight lipped smile, before a yawn forced its way past his lips.

Naomi frowned at him. "No offense, Raf, but you look like- crap," she told him, after a quick glance towards the living room.

Raf closed his eyes and sighed. "He's just not sleeping. I swear he's up half the night coughing. It's exhausting."

"Have you guys taken him back to his pediatrician?"

"Melissa made another appointment, I think it's tomorrow, maybe Thursday. They're supposed to run some tests." He shrugged in a mixture of helplessness and frustration. "I don't want them to find anything, but at the same time, if they don't find anything- then they can't help him."

"From what Melissa's told me, it sounds like it could be asthma, which is usually pretty manageable. If it is, Beacon Memorial's got a great pulmonologist. He'll get it under control."

Raf gave her another tight lipped smile, trying to take comfort in her words, and failing. The thought that something was wrong, that Scott wasn't well, ate away at him. There was so much that he could and would do to protect his son. This, however, this was out of his control, and that thought terrified him.

"Well," she announced, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them, "I'm going to get out of here." She turned to leave, but then hesitated, something drawing her back to the conversation. "Seriously, don't worry."

"Yeah," he said distractedly, unable to fully pull himself from his thoughts. "Thanks again."

"No problem."

As Naomi slipped out the door, Scott's impatient call came from the living room. "Daddy, come!"

Raf sighed, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, as he pushed aside his fatigue.

"Daddy!"

"Yeah, I'm coming, Buddy," he called as he forced himself to his feet. Removing his gun and holster, he deposited the rig on top of the fridge, and made his way into the living room. He stripped off his jacket and tie, tossing the garments on the couch, before kneeling down next to his son.

Scott was surrounded by an entire zoo of plastic and stuffed animals, leaving Raf to wonder when and how they had accumulated so many. "Which one do I get to play with?" he asked as he plucked a plastic zebra from the pile.

"Not da zebra," Scott said as he pulled the toy back out of Raf's hand.

"Not the zebra? Then how about the camel?"

Scott shook his head, coughing slightly as he once again plucked the toy away. "You watch me," he instructed Raf as he continued to line up his toys.

"I don't get to play?"

"No, you just watch," Scott confirmed.

"Just watch," he parroted in mock indignation. "What if I don't want to just watch?" He reached out and grasped ahold of Scott's little legs, dragging him around to better face him and pulling him close. "What if I want to play?" he demanded as he reached for his tummy, eliciting a giggle from the 3 year-old.

"Can't I play?" Raf asked again, as he continued to tickle, catching Scott as he toppled over backwards in laughter. His belly newly exposed, he leaned down and blew a raspberry. "You gonna let me play?" he kept asking as he continued his onslaught, not letting up until Scott started coughing. Grinning he leaned back to let his son catch his breath.

"You ok, Bud?" he asked when the fit continued, seeming to grow worse instead of getting better. "Hey, hey," Raf soothed as he pulled Scott up into a sitting position and rubbed at his back. "Just relax, ok, calm down."

It didn't stop, even sitting upright, the coughs continued. Scott was taking short stuttering breaths, his whole body heaving with the effort of it. Raf watched helplessly, unsure of how or what to do to help.

"Feels- funny," Scott choked out, quiet and raspy, as he rubbed at his chest.

"Your chest feels funny?" Raf asked, barely managing to keep the panic out of his voice.

Scott only nodded in return, his little face paling and casting a bluish tint to his lips.

"What do you mean? How does it feel funny?" Raf waited one beat, and then two, but Scott either couldn't or wouldn't answer. He just stared at him, his dark brown eyes begging Raf to fix it, to make it better. All Raf could do was sit there, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to think or move, trapped by the sheer terror of the situation. He'd been in terrible situations before, where you either acted or died, and there was no way in hell he was going to let Scott die.

"Ok" he whispered, as he scooped his son into his arms and pushed himself up off the floor. "You're ok. Daddy's got you," he told him as he snatched his keys off the kitchen table and all but ran out the door.

"You're ok," he kept repeating, over and over and over, as he struggled to buckle Scott into his car seat, his fingers fumbling with the harness. He almost gave up on the fucking thing, sacrificing safety in the interest of time, before it snapped into place. With Scott secured finally, he jumped behind the wheel, threw the car in reverse, and gunned the engine.

Scene Break

Raf drove quickly, reckless, but without abandoning all caution, as he maneuvered through the residential streets. He narrowly missed taking out a mailbox, swerving to avoid being t-boned when he blew through a stop sign. "Fuck!" he muttered loudly, as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, before remembering to throw his light up onto the dash and flip on his siren.

He made the fifteen minute drive to Beacon Hills Family Practice in less than ten. Raf pulled right up to the front door, bringing the car to a stop broadside across the yellow zone. He grabbed Scott out of the backseat and bounded up the three steps up to the entrance. Yanking the door open, he burst into the office, all but shoving an elderly woman away from the reception window.

"Something's wrong with my son," he told the receptionist, ignoring the older woman's complaints.

"Sir, I'm going to have-"

"No, he's not breathing," Raf interrupted, turning Scott so she could see his blue lips.

"Go around to the door on the right," she told him, before hustling out of the office.

Raf turned, bumping into the poor woman again in his rush. "Sorry," he offered as he pushed past her and hurried over to the entrance to the exam rooms.

The ten to fifteen seconds he waited at the door felt like minutes. So much so that he had to force himself not pace, before one of the doctors opened it and ushered him back. She didn't take them to an exam room, but to the little alcove where they measure your height and weight.

"Have a seat there," she told him, gesturing to the chair sitting beside the scale. "Tell me what's going on."

"I don't- we were just playing," he explained while she tilted Scott's head back and shined a light down his throat. "Then he started coughing, and the next thing I knew he couldn't breath."

"Did he inhale something? Or is there a history of breathing problems?" she asked, as she moved from his mouth to listen to his chest.

"No- well, we don't-. He's been coughing at night. They wanted to run some tests."

She nodded, before stepping away and pulling several boxes out of the overhead cupboards. "What's your son's name?"

"Scott." Raf watched anxiously as she connected a short fat tube to a face mask, before taking an inhaler out of one of the boxes. She shook the canister, then discharged it 2 or 3 times, before connecting it to the other end of the tube. "What's wrong with him?"

"I think he's having an asthma attack," she replied, as she wheeled a stool in front of them and sat down.

"Hey, Scott," she called gently. "Dad's going to hold this mask over your nose and mouth, so I can give you some medicine to help you breathe, ok?"

She held the contraption up for him to see, but Scott didn't respond. He almost seemed to be in a stupor, just sitting there on Raf's lap. Mouth wide and nostrils flaring, his whole body heaved with the effort to breath.

"Hold this over his mouth and nose," she instructed.

Once he'd done so, she depressed the canister once more and released the medication into the tube. She had him keep the mask in place for about fifteen to twenty seconds, giving Scott time to inhale as much of the drug as possible.

"Ok, Dad," she instructed as she took the apparatus from him, "we're going to do this every 2 minutes until we have him breathing a little better or the ambulance gets here."

"That's it?" he asked as she wheeled back, giving them space. He wrapped his arms reflexively around his son, unnerved at how his small body labored and at how little he could do to help.

"Unless he starts declining, there's not much more we can do," she explained, her tone apologetic. "We just need to keep him stable until the ambulance comes."

Raf nodded, unwittingly tightening his hold on Scott.

"Not too tight there," she quietly reprimanded, "we don't want to make it even harder for him."

Embarrassed, Raf felt his cheeks coloring. "Sorry."

She smiled reassuringly at him. "It's ok."

Scene Break

They used the inhaler twice more before Scott started squirming, pushing the mask away before he'd breathed enough of the medication and trying to bury his face in Raf's chest. Color had returned to his lips and his entire body was no longer heaving with each labored breath.

"Let's give him a break," Dr. Gehrt commented as Raf struggled to hold the toddler still, "while I take a listen."

Scott, however, was still having none of it. He continued to push and squirm, being altogether uncooperative. "Scott, you need to hold still," Raf scolded, whilst the doctor trailed after him with her stethoscope.

"He's definitely loosened up," she stated, though how she'd managed to hear anything was beyond Raf. "There's still a faint wheeze, but it's much less pronounced."

"EMTs are here," one of the office staff announced, the paramedics trailing in behind him.

Raf waited impatiently as the EMTs assessed Scott whilst being debriefed by Dr. Gehrt. Now that his son was breathing easier, much of the tension had lifted, leaving room for frustration that everything seemed to have come to an apparent standstill. "Do I still need to take him to the ER?" he asked finally, his tone more clipped than he would have liked.

"I would highly recommend it, yes," Dr. Gehrt answered. "He sounds pretty good right now, but relapses are not uncommon. Plus they'll want to run some tests, verify what exactly happened, so we can prevent it from happening again."

"We're about ready to go," one of the EMTs interrupted. "You want to carry him out?"

Raf nodded, pushing himself to his feet and shifting Scott over to his hip. The toddler wrapped his little legs tightly around Raf's midsection and hid his face in the crook of Raf's neck.

"I hope you feel better, Scott," Dr. Gehrt called to him, as she gently rubbed at his back.

"Thank you," Raf offered as he extended a hand.

"Absolutely," she replied, smiling as she accepted the handshake. "I'm glad I could help."

He gave her a tight lipped smile, before following the EMTs out of the office.

Scene Break

It was as they were exiting the building that he realized two things. The first being that he'd left his car running. The second was that he wasn't wearing any shoes. "I, uh, I need to move my car," he told the medics, as he stood awkwardly beside the vehicle, the rough pavement biting into the bottoms of his socked feet.

"I'll get it for you," one of them assured him as another guided him further towards the ambulance.

Raf nodded his thanks, before allowing himself to be ushered into the back of the bus. The ordeal had left him completely drained and Scott fussy, so he found it easy to relinquish the task to someone else. As they got underway, he fished his phone out of his pocket to call Melissa.

"Hey," he greeted stiffly when she picked up, unsure of how to start the conversation and settling for direct and to the point. "I'm headed into the hospital. Scott had- I don't know, most likely an asthma attack-"

There was a moment of silence before she asked, her voice laced with concern that betrayed her struggle to remain calm, "is he alright?"

"He seems to be. I took him to that Beacon Hills Family Practice. They got it under control pretty quickly. We're taking him to the ER more as a precautionary. We should be there in a few minutes."

"Ok," he could almost picture her nodding, lips pinched tightly together as she processed the information. "I'll meet you in the ambulance bay," she told him after a moment, before ending the call.

Raf sighed, as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. He tightened his grip around his son, pulling him close and tucking Scott's head under his chin, before kissing his forehead.

Chapter #2 - Roxy's Attack

Melissa couldn't help the fond smile that crept across her face as she watched Scott struggle to attach the leash to Roxy's collar. The pup was so eager, her excitement making it near impossible for her to keep all four feet planted on the ground. Scott was almost as animated, only his enthusiasm was relayed through laughter rather than circling and tail wagging.

"Hold still, Roxy," he scolded playfully, his words carrying no heat, and almost serving to compound the problem rather than fix it.

This was all part of their new routine. Scott took Roxy, a consolation gift given to help ease the stress of Raf's frequent absences and the near-constant fighting which ensued as a result of them, for a walk every day after school and twice on Saturdays and Sundays. It made her nervous, letting him go out on his own, for more reasons than one. She worried something might happen; that he could get lost or hit by a car, possibly kidnapped. Beneath those normal, if somewhat irrational, parental fears, she worried about his asthma. She worried that, while out there on his own, he'd have a severe attack.

Despite doing everything they possibly could, Scott's asthma wasn't well-controlled. They worked with Dr. Casey, who was recognized as the best pediatric pulmonologist in the area. Scott was an ideal patient. He faithfully took his control medications, did his best to avoid his triggers, and generally did not complain about the restrictions they placed upon him. In spite of their best efforts, he still needed his rescue inhaler almost daily and at least once or twice a week at night. Thankfully, he hadn't suffered a severe attack since he was three, but she lived in constant fear that a moderate or even a mild one would escalate.

She refused, however, to let her fears hold him back. He was almost ten years old, an age where most children typically experienced increased independence and self-reliance. Living with a severe and life-threatening illness, and in what had essentially become a single-parent household, was going to make those skills all the more important. So she allowed it, granting him this small step in responsibility and maturity, even if it was the most nerve wracking thirty minutes of her day.

"Hold it!" Melissa called from where she leaned against the counter in the kitchen, halting him just as his hand reached for the doorknob. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I have my phone and my inhaler," Scott replied, brandishing said objects for her to see, before shoving them back into his coat pockets.

"Ok, but what else are you supposed to do before you leave the house?" she prompted.

He hesitated for a moment, eyes casting to the side in a clear effort to remember what he'd forgotten. "I did my peak flow," he bit out, his cheeks immediately coloring at the slight outburst.

"Hey," she countered, her tone stern yet forgiving, as she waited for him to meet her eye. "Any idea why I didn't know that?"

"Because I didn't write it down?" he asked tentatively, his words losing all defensiveness.

"Because you didn't write it down," she confirmed, as she grabbed the pen and chart off the fridge. "What did you score?"

"Eighty-three," he replied happily.

"That's good!" A green score, no matter how low, was always counted as a win. She jotted the number down in the appropriate column and returned it to the fridge. "Now, remind me of the rules."

"Make sure I have my phone and my inhaler. Stick to the loop. No stopping or talking to strangers. Call you immediately if I have any symptoms."

"Ok," Melissa relented with a smile, heart torn with a mixture of pride and grief at how quickly he was growing up. "You two be safe and have fun."

Scott smiled back, bright and sincere, calling out a quick "bye, Mom" before bounding out the door with Roxy in tow.

Scene Break

The pair trotted down the walk and turned left, heading along the sidewalk that ran parallel to Williamson Road. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon; the early October air was warm without being overbearingly hot. Scott lifted his face up to the sun, smiling as Roxy tugged on his arm, sniffing at every mailbox and street sign. It wasn't long before they were rounding onto Pine, the slope of the sidewalk increasing with the only hill along their route. They passed familiar houses and other dogs, some barking at them on chains or from behind fences. Sometimes it made him nervous, but his mom and he had first driven and then walked the route together many times, making sure it was safe.

Scott never saw the attack coming; there was no warning bark, no growl. All he knew was that Roxy suddenly yanked hard on her leash, pulling him roughly to the left. The force of it jarred his shoulder, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall. Hot pain blossomed along his palms and knees as the rough concrete tore open his skin. The leash continued to jerk and pull at the loop around his wrist and within his clenched fist, accompanied by growls and snarls. Looking up, he watched in shocked horror as Roxy brawled with a big black dog.

"Roxy!" he screamed, as he struggled to his feet, the constant yanking on his arm nearly toppling him again.

Without thought or hesitation, Scott grabbed a hold of the big dog and desperately tried to pull it away from Roxy. It turned quickly on him, slipping from his grasp and knocking him back to the ground. He hit hard, the impact causing his head to smack off the ground. Scott gasped as pain erupted across the back of his skull, bringing tears to his eyes. He'd barely registered the injury, however, when he felt the beast latch onto his leg. He cried out as the dog's teeth sank deep into his calf, piercing the skin and muscle. It pulled at him once, twice, tearing his flesh as it drug him across the ground.

Scott tried to scream as Roxy leapt at the other dog's throat, biting and ripping, making it let go of his leg, but he couldn't force the air out of his lungs. All he could do is lay there, chest heaving, as the two dogs went at it. Their growls and snarls intensified, then gave way to a high-pitched yelping that rang loud in his ears, before fading to silence.

Scott rolled onto his side and found Roxy, lying limp, not far from him. Blood stained the soft sandy brown fur around her throat and belly and her front paw laid at a funny angle.

"Roxy?" he whispered, his breath coming in short shallow gasps. The tightness in his chest made it near impossible to push the word out. He reached out to her, his fingers barely brushing along the fur on her chest, the soft touch eliciting a pitiful whimper.

Scene Break

Noah sighed, glancing over at Stiles as he flicked on his turn signal and turned down Pine Street. "Sorry about this, Kiddo," he apologized for what must have been the third time since they'd left the house. He grimaced as soon as he said the words, the dishonesty behind them leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

It wasn't that it was a lie, at least, not entirely. He did feel bad about dragging Stiles out of the house on a Saturday. It was the reason for leaving, or lack thereof, that wasn't completely truthful.

He didn't need to go into the office; there wasn't an emergency or a pressing new case. He was just using it as an excuse. An excuse to hide the sad truth that he couldn't stand to be home. He couldn't stand to be in that shell of a house. Where her memories haunted him. Where he was forced to acknowledge the daunting prospect of having to raise his son alone. Where the only shelter from his grief and the stress and worry could be found in a bottle of Jack Daniels.

He didn't want to drink. He had seen over and over the consequences of choosing the bottle, had lived through them first hand with his own father. He didn't want to be that, not for Stiles, not for himself, at least not today. So, if he wasn't going to drown himself in whiskey, the next best thing was work.

"It's ok," Stiles replied absently, as he stared out the window.

Noah frowned, equal parts relieved and disturbed at the despondent answer. Relieved, because Stiles had actually spoken. Disturbed, because the scant words were so unlike his normally verbose, hyperactive, son.

"I'm sure we can- what is that?" he asked, interrupting himself at the sight of a large black dog tearing into something along the side of the road. He quickly checked for traffic before pulling over onto the burm; as he did, he noticed the small body lying close to the commotion. "Aw, hell," he muttered as he reached for his radio. "Dispatch this is Unit 1. I've got a dog attack on Pine Street near Williamson. Requesting animal control and paramedics to this location. Over."

"Roger that, Unit 1," Tara called back. "Animal Control and paramedics dispatched to your location. Pine Street near Williamson."

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Noah turned to Stiles. "Stay in the car, you hear me?" Stiles nodded, his eyes full of the eager curiosity that had been missing for months.

Climbing quickly out of the car, Noah placed his hand on the butt of his pistol and cautiously approached the scene. The large dog, a shepherd by the looks of it, had a smaller one pinned to the ground, its jaws locked tight around the other's neck. The body was that of a boy, who looked to be about Stiles's age. His pants were torn and bloody, but he was awake and breathing.

Noah knew he had to neutralize the shepherd first or risk the boy, and himself, being attacked. So he moved in carefully, taking advantage of the dog's distraction and grabbing a hold of its hind legs. The brute immediately let go of its prey and tried to turn on him, jerking and pulling the trapped limbs in an effort to free itself. Noah held tight, making sure he had a firm grip on the animal before wheelbarrowing it backwards away from both the boy and his dog.

Once he had the shepherd a safe distance from the others, he contemplated how to secure it. It had no collar. The house they were in front of had no fence, chain, or tie-out cable. That really only left him one option.

"Stile-" he started, cutting his yell short as he looked back at the cruiser and found his son standing no more than six feet from him-no more than six feet from the dog that had already attacked one kid, far from the safety of the vehicle he was supposed to be tucked away in. Biting back on the harsh words that threatened to spew forth, words borne of frustration and fear, Noah forced himself to focus on the task at hand. "I need you to close the front doors and open the back ones," he instructed, projecting the calm authority into his voice that came with years of being a police officer.

Stiles stared wide-eyed at the dog for a moment, before jumping into action, stumbling and almost falling on his way back to the car in his eagerness to help. Once he had the rear seat opened up and the front secure, Noah nodded towards the front of the vehicle. "Stand up by the hood. When I tell you, shut this door here. You got it?" Stiles nodded, rushing to the front of the cruiser as instructed.

With his son in position, Noah backed up to the car and crawled into the backseat, dragging the shepherd in behind him. It wasn't an easy task, shuffling across the bench, unable to use his hands or lean forward for fear of getting bit, with a eighty pound dog in tow, but he managed. He had to completely withdraw out the far side, before the brute was in far enough to get the door shut.

"Close it now!" He waited for Stiles to push the door shut, and then, in one fluid motion, shoved the dog forward and retreated, pulling back as quickly as possible and slamming the last door closed.

Scene Break

With the aggressor safely confined to the police cruiser, Noah turned back to Stiles. "I want you to stay with the cruiser, alright?" Stiles nodded even as he took a step forward to follow Noah over to the two victims. "Stiles!" he barked, startling the ten year old back. "Stay with the car."

When he was confident that his son would stay put, Noah jogged back over to the boy. He'd moved, which Noah hoped was a good sign, that his injuries couldn't be too severe if he was mobile. His hand was outstretched towards his dog, a gnarled mess of fur and blood, who lay far too still next to him. Grimacing at the gruesome scene, Noah forced his attention back to the boy. He knelt down beside him and gently rolled him onto his back.

"No," the kid choked, the word barely recognizable through his short rapid breaths. He clung desperately to the leash, now stained in blood and gripped tightly in his hand.

"It's ok," Noah soothed as he gently pulled him away, "I'm going to try and help her, but I need to check you out first."

Now that he was able to get a proper look at the boy, it became readily apparent that he couldn't breathe. Shock was Noah's first thought, but he didn't think the boy's injuries were severe enough to cause it. His leg was torn up pretty badly-enough to warrant stitches he was sure-but it didn't appear to be life threatening. Other than some scrapes and abrasions, he could find no other wounds or signs of trauma. His second thought was a panic attack, brought to mind by the episodes that Stiles had been going through since Claudia died.

"Hey," he called, his tone firm and calm. "Look at me." It took a minute, but eventually those eyes, puffy and red and glazed over with fear, turned to look at him. "You're ok. You just need to calm down. Take deep breaths in and out."

Noah breathed in deep through his nose, held it for a second, and then exhaled slowly through his mouth, modeling the technique Stiles's doctor had shown them. It worked, sometimes, but after about four or five cycles, it was obvious this wasn't going to be one of those times. In fact, it almost seemed as if the kid was getting worse. His whole body heaved with each labored breath, drawing in his chest and stomach, and straining the muscles in his neck.

"That's Scott," Stiles announced suddenly, causing Noah to jump.

"Stiles-" he started to reprimand.

"He has asthma."

Noah closed his mouth, whatever rebuke he was about to offer quickly dying on his lips. "Are you sure?"

Stiles nodded. "Mrs. Noble reminds him to take his inhaler everyday before gym class."

"Do you have your inhaler, Scott?" Noah asked, turning back to the boy and immediately searching his person. To his relief, he found the thing safely tucked in a coat pocket, seemingly undamaged from the scuffle. As he looked it over, he hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he didn't actually know how to use one.

The sound of police sirens approaching from a distance, the knowledge that backup was about to arrive, and that EMTs would soon follow, gave Noah the confidence to push forward. He gently slid his hand under the boy's head, tilted it up, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and depressed the canister. He heard the telltale hiss, that sudden burst, similar to that of an aerosol can, and then nothing. He looked back and forth between the boy's, between Scott's, chest and face, searching for any indication that the thing had worked. There was none.

"Sheriff?"

Noah looked up to find Deputy Cross jogging towards them. "Cross," he ordered, his growing concern for Scott sharpening his tone, "radio dispatch. Find out what the ETA is on that ambulance."

Cross nodded, before keying the mic on his shoulder. "Dispatch this is Unit 5, on scene with Sheriff Stilinski. What's the ETA on the ambulance to this location?"

"Copy that Unit 5," Tara's voice called back. "ETA on your ambulance is 5 minutes."

"Roger that," Cross responded before turning back to Noah. "What've we got, Sir?"

"Dog attack," Noah replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Kid's leg's pretty torn up, but more importantly, I can't get his breathing under control."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. Stiles says he's got asthma, but I tried the inhaler and it didn't work."

Noah watched as the Deputy looked over at Stiles, who was still hovering nearby, pacing back and forth and chewing on his fingernails, a look of horrified curiosity on his face. It was nothing, just a glance, barely enough to truly acknowledge that the kid was there, but there was still something about it. Something that didn't quite sit right, like they were being judged, and it grated on Noah's nerves.

"Sit him up," Cross instructed, startling Noah out of his spiral as he knelt across from him and started lifting the kid. "It should help open his airways."

Noah bit back the defensiveness that stewed in his gut and followed his Deputy's lead, supporting Scott's head as the two pulled him into a sitting position. They'd just gotten him upright when a panicked female voice called from down the street.

"Scott!"

Scene Break

Melissa busied herself with housework as she waited for Scott to return. She hated housework; vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing countertops, floors, and toilets. Before Scott was born, she'd avoided it all at all costs, putting chores off for days until even she was embarrassed by the state of things. They hadn't lived in filth, far from it; but she wasn't about to lose any sleep over a layer of dust on the entertainment center or a soap ring in the shower.

When Scott arrived, she made a conscientious effort to do better. The long shifts she worked for what felt like days on end, however, made it so that the last thing she wanted to do when she got home, or on her days off, was clean. In her opinion, her energies were best spent elsewhere, like spending quality time with her son. In theory she knew, like anything else, that there needed to be a balance, but balance was difficult to find and even harder to maintain. A situation that was made all the worse by Raf's near-constant criticism and outright refusal to help.

Sighing, Melissa scrubbed vigorously at the kitchen counter, taking her frustrations out on the laminate and what she suspected was tomato sauce that was refusing to lift. She had just about given up on the stain when the wail of a siren caught her attention. Looking up, she glimpsed the flash of red and blue lights flying down the street. She froze at the sight of it, locked in place as fear took control of her.

There was no reason to believe or even suspect that it had anything to do with Scott, yet she knew. She couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it. She just knew that something was wrong.

Dropping the sponge on the counter, Melissa jogged out of the house and down to the road. She hesitated at the end of the walk, trying to convince herself that she was just being paranoid, that Scott was fine. The dread, however, the dread that had settled in her stomach, that elevated her pulse and had her heart pounding in her chest, refused to let her believe it. She glanced back at the house, gripped in a moment of uncertainty, before giving in and heading off down Scott's approved route.

She tried not to run, alternating between walking and jogging, angry at herself for what she perceived as irrational behavior and yet unable to make herself stop.

She should have just called him, she realized when she was halfway down Williamson. Just a quick check-in to make sure that he was ok, that he was safe. It was the reason she'd gotten him a cellphone, why she required him to carry it, and yet, in a moment of blind panic, she'd completely forgotten. Chastising herself for her own stupidity, she reached for her phone in her jeans pocket. She froze when she came up empty handed and she realized that she'd left it sitting on the kitchen table. She stood there for a second, torn between going back and continuing on. If she went back, she'd lose time, time that might matter if he was in trouble. If she didn't and he or emergency services called she wouldn't be able to answer. Reaching him seemed more important, so she pushed the phone from her mind and continued down the street.

Approaching the corner, she caught the sight of flashing lights to her left, just a ways up Pine Street. From her current location, Melissa could just make out two officers, recognizable by their brown uniforms, huddled over something on the ground. There was a child pacing nearby, attention shifting from the officers to a light brown lump laying just behind them.

There was something about that mass on the ground, something that sat like lead in the pit of her stomach, and had her quickening her pace. She was only about thirty yards away when the officers shifted slightly, lifting whatever or whomever they were huddling over. She gasped, her hand coming up to her mouth, when she recognized Scott's face, the shock of it momentarily slowly her steps.

"Scott!" she cried out, unable to keep the panic from her voice, as she broke into a sprint.

Melissa rushed up to him and dropped to her knees, practically knocking over one of the officers in the process. "Scott! Oh, Sweetheart, what happened? Are you ok?" she asked as she cupped his face, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks and running her fingers through his hair.

"M—om," Scott wheezed, the word barely a whisper and nearly indiscernible through his ragged breaths.

"Ssh," she soothed, smiling at him as she sniffed back tears that were threatening to fall. "Don't try to talk." It was obvious he was in the grip of a severe attack. Beyond the difficulty he had speaking and the spasms that wracked his entire torso with each inhalation, his nostrils were flared and she was sure that if she lifted his shirt she'd see retractions.

She took a measured breath, trying to compose herself so she could better address the situation, so she could better help him.

"Ma'am?" one of the officers asked gently, "this is your son?"

"Yes," she barked, frustration and stress causing her to snap at the man as she dug through Scott's pockets. "Where's your inhaler, Baby?" she asked as calmly as she could manage, as the tears broke free and started streaming down her cheeks.

"Where's his inhaler?" she yelled at two men, knowing that she wasn't helping, that her agitation was only making things worse.

"It's right here," one of them told her, as he offered up the device. His tone was gentle and calm, which she both appreciated and despised. "I tried giving it to him, but it didn't seem to do any good. We've got an ambulance on route. It should be here any second."

"Thank you," Melissa replied, as she took the inhaler, the words still somewhat clipped, but no less sincere, before she turned back to Scott.

"You need to try and take it again," she told him as she helped guide the actuator to his lips. "Just do the best you can, ok."

Scott nodded, before attempting to take the albuterol. The problem was that he couldn't force enough air out of his lungs. He couldn't inhale deep enough or hold his breath. He couldn't do any of the things necessary to effectively deliver the medication. All Melissa could do was watch helplessly, knowing that there was nothing she could do to help.

"Where is that ambulance?" she demanded, just as sirens blared in the distance.

The sound of it loosened the knot that had formed in her gut and around her heart, the knot that had tightened with each of his labored breaths. "Help is coming, Sweetheart," she assured him as she took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "You just hang in there."

"Wha—bou—Rox—?" Scott asked, struggling to force the words out.

Melissa opened her mouth, hesitated, and then closed it without a response, suddenly acutely aware that she had no idea what exactly had happened. She'd noticed the blood that stained his clothes and the leash still clenched tightly in his hand. She'd seen his ripped and torn jeans, had caught glimpses of the damage to his leg beneath. All of that, however, had taken a backseat, had been pushed to the side to focus on his breathing. "What happened?" she asked, searching the faces around her for a response, as renewed tears streamed down her cheeks.

"They were attacked by a large dog," one of the officers, the one who'd been doing all of the talking, informed her, his tone soft and kind.

"Roxy?" she asked, fearing the confirmation of what she already knew; she hadn't seen or heard the dog since she'd arrived.

The officer hesitated, glancing quickly behind him, before turning back and solemnly shaking his head. "We'll make sure she gets taken care of," he assured her.

"Thank you," she replied, as he stepped away, making room for the paramedics that had just arrived.

Scene Break

Melissa held Scott's hand the entire trip to the hospital, as Baaklini worked to try to get his breathing under control. She knew Adam; it was impossible to work in the ER and not know the local paramedics. He was good, a little short and abrasive, not the greatest bedside manner, but that was irrelevant. What mattered was that he was one of the best, and she was grateful that Scott was his patient.

Despite Baaklini's best efforts, however, Scott wasn't improving, at least not by any significant metric. He continued to struggle, hovering somewhere between a moderate and severe attack. They'd put him on a nebulizer in an effort to more effectively deliver the albuterol, in addition to giving him a shot of methylprednisolone. Neither were doing much to help. His airway was still dangerously narrowed. His breath sounds, including the telltale wheeze, were distant and faint. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were pulled tight. His chest was still retracting, all accessory muscles straining with the effort to move air.

He'd just completed the second round of the albuterol from the nebulizer when they pulled into the ambulance bay. Melissa waited anxiously as Turner, another paramedic, and Baaklini removed Scott on the gurney before climbing quickly out of the back. She had to jog a few steps to catch up, managing to do so just as they breached the hospital doors.

"Mom?" Scott asked, as she retook his bloody hand, his words barely audible through his struggles to exhale.

"Shh, it's ok, Sweetheart," Melissa soothed, trying to quiet him. "You just need to breathe, ok."

"Where's- Roxy?"

Melissa hesitated, unsure of what to tell him. He'd asked several times now, and she kept avoiding giving him an answer, fearing that the stress and shock of the truth would exacerbate his condition. She thought of Roxy, bloody and still, where she lay on the ground. She didn't know many of the details as to what had happened, but there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain. Roxy had saved Scott's life. For that, she'd be forever in the dog's debt.

"Sweetheart," she said as she squeezed his hand and then gently pulled the blood stained leash from it. "She didn't make it."

He looked at her in confusion and disbelief. "Where's- Rox-?" he asked again, eyes welling with tears as he began to acknowledge the truth.

"Try not to talk," she encouraged, as her own tears started falling anew. She looked away briefly, to wipe them away, irritated at herself for losing her composure yet again. His hand suddenly went slack in hers. Alarmed she glanced down to find him suddenly pale and unconscious with a bluish tint to his lips.

"Scott!" she called, unable to mask her panic. "Scott, you need to breathe!"

"Melissa," someone ordered, as they took her by the shoulders and tried to pull her away. "You need to step back."

"Breathe, Baby, breathe," she begged, before being ripped away from him.

"Scott!" she yelled as she was forced back out into the hallway.

"Melissa!" someone all but yelled, giving her a firm shake and startling her back to herself. "You need to calm down."

Melissa nodded, taking a deep shuddering breath as she pulled away from Naomi. She wiped at her nose and eyes and shook out her hands, trying to regain her composure.

"Scott's going to want you in there," Naomi scolded lightly, stating what Melissa already knew. "He's going to need you in there. But right now? Right now, you're just making things worse."

"I know," she choked out, sniffing and wiping at her eyes again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Naomi told her, forcing a smile to try and lighten her words. "Just take a minute to get a hold of yourself and, when you're ready, come back in."

Melissa nodded, taking several more deep calming breaths in an effort to pull herself together. She could handle this. She'd seen worse. As an ER nurse, she'd worked on numerous patients in life-threatening conditions. This was no different, except for all the terrifying ways in which it was. "He's going to be ok," she whispered, assuring herself of what she hoped would be the truth. "We've been through this before; he's going to be ok."

"Damn straight he is," Naomi assured her, "kid's tough as nails." She gave Melissa's shoulder a brief squeeze, before turning and heading back into the room.

More in control, if not entirely calm, Melissa pulled Scott's phone out of her pocket and flipped it open. She hesitated briefly, finger hovering over Raf's speed-dial, before holding down the button. He would want to know, she told herself as it started to ring. It rang once and then twice before her call was declined and she was kicked to his voicemail.

Frustrated, she forced herself to bite back on her anger. She couldn't be angry, well...she could, but she shouldn't. It wasn't like he could possibly know. Still, it was just so damn typical, for him to shove them aside as if they were irrelevant. Not that any of it mattered, at least right now.

"Can't you even be bothered to pick up for your son?" she demanded of his voicemail. "Call me. It's important." Hanging up, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and returned to Scott.

Scene Break

Stiles moved slowly, inching across the unit in a series of measured steps, shooting worried glances as his dad, checking to see if he was about to get caught. They'd been at the hospital for what felt like an eternity, waiting. Just waiting and waiting and waiting. They'd waited for the doctors to finish helping Scott, getting him to breath properly and stitching up his leg. They'd waited for Scott to 'rest,' as apparently asthma attacks and dog attacks were not just mentally, but also physically draining. He'd been forced to wait in the hallway while his Dad took Scott's statement. Now, he was supposed to be waiting for his dad to talk to Scott's mom. There was only so much waiting a person could handle, however, and Stiles had reached his limit.

Taking advantage of his dad's distraction and turned back, he slipped quietly into Scott's cubicle-like room. His classmate was practically sitting up in the bed, it was set so high. The blankets were pulled up and tucked loosely around him. He was staring off to the side, a sad vacant look on his face. Stiles knew that look; his dad had been wearing it a lot recently.

"Dude!" he kind-of whispered as he crouched down beside Scott's bed, trying to stay out of sight of prying parental eyes. "That was the grossest thing I'd ever seen! Can I see your leg? How many stitches did they put in? What was it like riding in the ambulance?"

Scott blinked at questions, but otherwise didn't respond, which Stiles took as indication to keep talking. "I heard my dad say that they might have to put down that dog. The dog warden said that he has a record. Did you know there was such a thing as a dog warden? Like a cop for dogs-"

"It killed Roxy," Scott interrupted quietly, as fresh tears streamed down his stained face.

Stiles blinked rapidly, completely derailed by the comment. "Was that your dog's name?" He asked tentatively.

Scott nodded in reply.

"I don't-," he stammered, unsure of what to say. "Deputy Cross took her to the vet," he eventually said, hoping, though he wasn't sure why, that that knowledge might make Scott feel better.

"Why would they take her to the vet?" Scott asked, sounding confused. "My mom said she didn't make it."

"I don't know," Stiles answered truthfully, "maybe they just needed a place to take her body, like the morgue at the hospital."

A silence settled between them, one that left Stiles fidgeting at the awkwardness. He'd never been a big fan of silence, had always felt a need to fill it with meaningless chatter. His house was silent all the time now. He hated it, but for some reason, he had no words to fill it. He cleared his throat, reaching for something, anything to say, unsure of why, but suddenly desperately needing to make Scott feel better. "My mom died," he finally offered. "So, I uh- I know how much it sucks."

Scott sniffed, wiping his tears and nose on the blanket. "I'm sorry about your mom," he said quietly, his voice cracking on the words.

Stiles turned away, embarrassed as tears of his own slid down his cheeks. "I'm sorry about your dog."

"Stiles," his dad barked, startling both of them at the interruption. "I thought-" He stopped suddenly, eyes softening as he took in the two of them. "I thought I told you to stay in the waiting room?"

"I did," Stiles argued weakly, "or at least I tried to."

"It's ok," Scott's mom assured him, giving him a tight lipped smile as she sat on the edge of the bed and took Scott's hand. "It's just really important that Scott doesn't get upset right now."

"Can we go home now?" Scott asked hopefully, turning to his mom and leaning into her side.

"Not right now, Sweetheart," she told him as she carded her fingers through his hair. "We're going to stay a while longer, until we're sure you won't have another attack."

"Well, um, we'll go ahead and get out of your hair," his dad stated. "I'll be in touch as soon as I know more about the dog and its owner."

"Thank you," Scott's mom replied.

"No problem. Stiles," his dad called, drawing his attention. "Let's go."

"Can I stay?" Stiles asked tentatively, surprisingly himself with the question.

"No," the Sheriff replied firmly, but not harshly. "Not today."

Stiles nodded, before stepping away from the bed. "Bye, Scott," he called, waving to the other boy before following his dad out of the room.

Chapter #3 - Stiles's Birthday

Melissa knocked lightly as she leaned against the open door jamb to Scott's room, the sound causing him to glance up from his packing.

"Hey, Mom," he greeted, as he continued to gather up the items he had laid out on his bed and shove them into his overnight bag.

"Are you sure you've got everything?" she asked casually. The question was more of a conversation starter than anything else; he was more than capable of packing on his own.

It bothered her sometimes, how independent he was, so much more than any 12-year old had a right to be. Part of it, she knew, was necessary because of his asthma. He had to be responsible enough to keep track of his symptoms and know when and how to take his medications. He had to be mature enough to be upfront about how he was feeling, to be honest about when he was managing and when he needed help.

That wasn't to say that he didn't have support. She constantly reminded and coached, requiring him to check in when she wasn't home and making him review his asthma diary with her when she was. Mrs. Lafferty, the school nurse, was invaluable when he was at school, helping to make sure that his teachers knew and abided by his action plan and allowed any necessary accommodations. The vast majority of it, however, fell on him. It was an unfortunate burden, but one he carried well.

There was another piece to it, however, one that had nothing to do with his medical condition. One that she couldn't help but feel was, at least in part, her fault. Raf was almost completely out of their lives now, his involvement declining steadily after she threw him out of the house, until it was essentially non-existent. She told herself that it was better this way, that severing ties was easier than dealing with the pain of disappointment. While she truly believed that they were happier without him, she feared that, without a father, Scott was being forced to grow up faster than he should have to.

"Yep," Scott answered, startling her out of her reverie and drawing her back to the room.

"Socks?" she asked, unable to resist nagging him goodheartedly. "Underwear? PJs?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"Toothbrush? Deodorant?"

"Yes, Mom!" he whined, but she could see him fighting a smile.

"What about your inhalers? Your nebulizer?"

He lifted said inhalers in response before shoving one in his bag and the other in his pocket.

"What about the nebulizer?"

Scott hesitated. He glanced at her, his face turning red, before looking away. "No," he muttered so softly she almost didn't hear him.

"Scott-"

"I don't see why I have to take it," he interrupted, trying to argue, though it came out more as pleading.

Melissa furrowed her brow, confused by his unusual resistance. "Scott. Sweetheart. You know it can get worse at night, which is why it's part of our deal. When you sleep over, you have to take all your medications."

"I know, but- I'll have my rescue inhaler." He paused, misery written clearly on his face. "I just don't see why I need both?."

Melissa frowned, pushing off the door frame and going to sit on the bed. "Sit," she instructed. He hesitated, clearly wanting to refuse, before finally relenting. "What's going on?" she asked. "You've never fought me on this before. Stiles and his dad know the drill. What's different this time?"

He looked down, picking at a non-existent spot on his jeans. "I don't want them to see," he mumbled.

"Who don't you want to see?" she asked, dreading his answer, but needing to know the truth.

"Everyone," he replied, refusing to meet her eye. "I just- it makes me look so stupid."

"Sweetheart," she asserted, "look at me." She waited until he did before asking, "Are you having problems at school? Are you being bullied?"

"No!" he stated vehemently, making her doubt the truth of the statement. "I mean-" he backpedaled, his tone quieting in a mixture of shame and discomfort, "not really. They just- make fun of us sometimes."

The admission served to both enrage and break her heart. "I see," she replied, before pausing for a moment to process the information. "You know," she started, trying to instill as much love and support as she could into her words, "bullies- people that like to harass and make fun of others, they usually do it because there's something going on in their lives that they don't know how to deal with. They're angry and frustrated, so they take it out on someone else. It doesn't make it right and it doesn't make it easier to deal with, but- you need to know that it doesn't have anything to do with you. Or Stiles. Not really."

"Yeah, but- we're easy targets."

"You can be," she agreed, though it pained her to do so, "because you're not perceived as 'normal,' but you don't have to be. Bullies- feed off of their victims reactions. It gives them a sense of power and control. If you don't give them what they want, then it's no longer worth their while. You just need to- refuse to play the game."

He didn't say anything, just turned away to stare down at his lap.

"None of these kids are going to be there tonight are they? It's just going to be you and Stiles, maybe a few others?" She didn't imagine that Stiles would invite their antagonists, but she wanted to be sure.

"There's going to be four of us all together."

"How many are staying the night?"

"Just me."

That both did and did not surprise her. Scott and Stiles had become extremely close over the past three years, so much so that at times she worried about their apparent disinterest in forming friendships with any of their other peers. The fact that Stiles had invited two other people was promising. That Scott was the only one sleeping over...well, she could be grateful for babysteps.

"Do I know the other two?" she asked, keeping her tone casual as she continued to pry, trying to get to the real root of the issue.

"Harley," he answered, "and a girl I don't know. Her name's Heather. Stiles wanted them to sleep over as well, but the Sheriff said 'no,'" Scott offered, his face reddening a little at the admission.

"I see," she repeated, unable to stop her lips from curling into a knowing smile. "Well, let me assure you that using your nebulizer does not make you look stupid. Even if it did," she continued, halting his interruption, "the likelihood that you would need it is slim. Right?"

"Yeah," he groused.

"What was your peak flow this afternoon?"

"Eighty-one."

Melissa suppressed a grimace, eighty-one wasn't great, but at least it was still green. "No other symptoms?"

"No, I feel pretty good."

"Ok. Then I say, based on how you're feeling now, that this is what will happen. You're going to go to this party, but you're going to take all your medications with you like we agreed. And," she stressed, cutting off his protests, "all you're going to worry about is having a great time. You've got no symptoms and there's no reason to think that you'll develop any later tonight, but you'll have everything with you just in case. Right?"

"Right," he agreed begrudgingly.

She smiled reassuringly at him before brushing his hair back and leaning over to kiss his forehead. "All right. Then, I'm going to head downstairs. Let me know when you're ready to leave."

"Ok." Scott answered, his tone still depressed, but she was confident he'd bounce back soon.

She rubbed her hand soothingly down his back, before standing up and leaving his room.

Scene Break

"Happy birthday, Dude," Scott greeted, as he took Stiles's hand, the two running through their custom handshake, which ended in a brief hug.

"Thanks," Stiles replied, returning the embrace, before stepping back and ushering Scott into the house. "I'm so glad you got here early because-"

"Hello, Scott," Sheriff Stilinski interrupted as he emerged from the kitchen, his tone friendly but holding a slight edge to it. The one it always held. The one that said he never fully trusted that Stiles, and by default Scott, wasn't up to something.

"Hey, Sheriff," Scott returned, smiling awkwardly, before turning back to Stiles and gesturing with his bags. "Where should I put these?"

"We're putting gifts on the dining room table," the Sheriff answered. "Why don't you put your overnight bag in Stiles's room for now."

"Ok," Scott replied, as he moved into the dining room. A cake box was set out on the table, along with an assortment of chips, plates, and napkins. The items looked out of place where case files normally littered the surface. He set his gift bag on the table, adding to the small pile from the Sheriff, before returning to his friend.

"Come on!" Stiles called, slapping Scott's arm, before bounding up the stairs. "Dad said we could pull out the sleeper-sofa after Heather and Harley leave," Stiles told him, practically bouncing in excitement as they entered his bedroom, "so we can stay up all night watching movies."

Scott laughed as he dumped his bag onto Stiles's bed. "Let me guess," he teased as he perched on the edge of the mattress, "you've got a Star Wars marathon planned."

"Dude! That was so going to be my plan, but then I found this."

Scott caught the DVD that was abruptly launched at him, though he barely managed to do so before it smacked him in the face. He couldn't stop the blush that crept up his neck as he took in the scantily clad woman with her exposed breast on the cover of 'Blue Ecstacy.' "Is this...is this what I think it is?" he whispered.

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, then yes."

Scott glanced nervously over his shoulder at the door, suddenly alarmed at how wide-open it was. "Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice practically trembling with a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and embarrassment.

Stiles shrugged. "I found it snooping around my dad's stuff in the basement."

Scott stared in disbelief, mouth gaping open like a fish. "Why were you snooping through your dad's stuff?"

Stiles gave him a look that spoke to how momumentally stupid he found the question. "I always snoop through my dad's stuff. Where do you think half my stuff comes from? Half my stuff is or rather was his stuff."

"Boys!" the Sheriff yelled from downstairs startling Scott so badly he nearly fell off the bed.

"Hide it!" he whispered harshly as he fumbled to shove the porno back at Stiles.

"The girls are here!" the Sheriff continued.

"Ok, Dad!" Stiles yelled back as he took the DVD from Scott. "Dude," he admonished softly, "you need to relax or you're going to blow the whole thing."

"Right. No. Sorry." Scott stuttered. "I just," he took a breath, attempting to calm his nerves. "I just wasn't expecting that."

Stiles looked at him, eyebrows raised in questioning disbelief. "Scott, buddy, breathe. Take a hit of your inhaler if you have to, but just relax."

"Yeah," Scott replied, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness. "I'm good," he said, assuring not only Stiles, but also himself.

"Boys!" the Sheriff hollered again, hints of irritation coloring his tone.

"Coming!" Stiles yelled back, stashing the DVD under his bed and leading Scott back downstairs.

Scene Break

After several hours packed with the likes of "I am Legend," "Superbad," and way too much Mario Kart, compounded with all the pizza, chips, pop, and cake they could eat, Harley and Heather were made to say their goodbyes. Their departure left Scott and Stiles to fend for themselves, armed with a second batch of movies and a massive sugar high.

"Are we really going to watch this?" Scott asked from where he sat on one end of the couch sofa, leaning over to toss his inhaler into his bag.

"Yes!" Stiles exclaimed as he knelt down in front of the TV. "Definitely yes! Why?" he asked, suddenly unsure. "Don't you want to?"

Maybe Scott was right, maybe this wasn't something you were supposed to do with a friend. Maybe this was more of an alone activity, but- he really didn't want to watch it alone, at least, not this first time. What did that say about him? What did it mean that he wanted to watch porn with his totally male, totally straight, best friend?

"Well, like, your Dad's going to be just upstairs." Scott replied, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. "What if he comes down to check up on us?"

"First off, when has he ever bothered to check up on us? Secondly, we won't watch it right away. We'll wait until like...2 am or something, after he's sure to have gone to bed."

"So, what you're saying," his dad interjected from where he magically appeared in the doorway, "is that I definitely need to do a 2 am walk-through?"

"What? No! Dad-" Stiles stopped, his chin dropping to his chest in defeat, knowing there was no sense in even trying. They were good and busted. "It's nothing bad," he argued. "If anything it's completely normal."

"Surprisingly, I don't find that admission all that comforting. So, what do you say you do this completely 'normal' activity some other time? Preferably, when I'm not in charge of chaperoning," he deadpanned as he held his hand out expectantly.

Stiles hesitated for a moment, before releasing a long suffering sigh. Pushing himself to his feet, he stood up and passed the porno over to his father. His dad took a long look at the cover before turning back to them. He opened his mouth, then closed it, before shaking his head. "I'm not even going to ask," he stated, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat, as he backed out of the room.

"Sorry," Scott apologized once Stiles's dad had gone, the words annoyingly sincere. "I didn't realize he was so close."

"It's alright," Stiles replied honestly, "we'll just have to move on to plan B."

"Plan B?" Scott asked, leerily. "What is plan B?"

"I don't know. Yet!" Stiles replied as he returned to the stack of DVDs. "But as soon as I do, you'll be the first to know."

Scene Break

Noah startled awake to the tune of Stiles roughly shaking him and calling his name. "Stiles?" he asked, without any trace of grogginess, his son's evident panic and adrenaline pushing him wide awake. "What's wrong?"

"Scott wants us to take him to the emergency room," Stiles croaked out, breathless from fear and supposedly running up the stairs.

Noah was out of bed and half dressed before Stiles even finished his sentence. Years of on-calls and late-calls having made him seasoned at the task for dressing quickly and efficiently. "Where's he at?" he asked as he ushered Stiles out of the room and towards the stairwell.

"He's still on the couch, taking another breathing treatment."

"How many has he had?"

"He, uh," Stiles stuttered, "he took his inhaler once. No! Twice. He took it two times. When he didn't feel better, he took a uh, a pill, and then he used his nebulizer. Now, he's using it again."

Noah tried to recall the details of the action plan that was hanging on their fridge, as he hurried downstairs. He knew that Scott was to use his rescue inhaler or his nebulizer every twenty minutes to every four hours depending on the severity of his symptoms. That he was on his fourth treatment spoke to how serious the attack was and to how poorly he was responding to the medication.

As Noah rushed into the living room, he found Scott sitting on the edge of the sofa-couch, back ram-rod straight. Even from a distance, he could see his entire torso heaving with the effort to pull air into his lungs. "Stiles," he instructed as he crossed the room, "get my wallet and my keys and go start the car.

Kneeling in front of Scott, Noah looked the boy over. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were pulled tight, straining with the effort to breath, and he was clutching the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles were white. "Ok, Scott, we're going to get you out of here," Noah assured him, trying to instill as much calm as he could into the words. "Can you walk to the car?"

Scott nodded, jerkily, his eyes wide and frightened, as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

"Easy," Noah instructed as he reached out to steady the boy with one hand, while he picked up the nebulizer with the other. Keeping a firm grip on Scott's arm, he tried to maneuver them around the couch.

"What can I do?" Stiles asked breathily from where he'd reappeared in the doorway.

"Grab this," Noah instructed, thrusting the small device at his son before simply scooping Scott into his arms.

The two of them hurried out of the house and down to the car. "Back seat," Noah ordered, waiting for Stiles to climb in before maneuvering Scott in after him. Once he had the boys situated he climbed into the front, flicked on the lights and sirens, and sped off. Picking up his CB, he radioed dispatch.

"Dispatch, this is Unit 1. I am onroute to Beacon Memorial with a 12-year-old boy having a severe asthma attack. I need paramedics to intercept as soon as possible."

"Copy that, Unit 1. What is your location?"

"I'm on Woodbine Lane, heading to Beacon Memorial via Beachwood and Mitchell, running full Code 3."

"Copy that, Unit 1. Paramedics on route."

"Dad!" Stiles cried frantically from the backseat, "Dad, he's freaking out!"

Noah glanced in the rearview mirror to see Scott pulling the mask off his face and pushing himself backwards up the seat. "Scott," he ordered, "you need to calm down. Stiles, try to talk to him."

"I don't-what do I say?"

"Anything," Noah encouraged, "just try to get him to calm down."

Though he could hear Stiles babbling frantically in the backseat, frequent glances in the rearview mirror showed it to be ineffective. Scott was still pressed high against the seat, practically pawing at the window. Noah considered pulling over, but honestly there was nothing he could do. What little first aid training he had didn't cover this. Thankfully, the decision was taken out of his hands, as he caught the sound of the ambulance siren in the distance.

He slowed down fractionally, waiting for the ambulance to pull over before crossing the road and pulling behind the bus. He slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a jarring stop that had the two boys slamming into back of the front seats.

"He's here!" Noah called to the paramedics as he climbed out of the car and opened the back door. Scott fought as he was pulled from the backseat, pushing against Noah's arms and chest, though his struggles were weak and uncoordinated.

"Sit down with him here," Riding, one of the EMTs, instructed, pointing to the edge of the road, where it was still flat. "Press his back against your chest to keep him upright."

Noah quickly complied, lowering them both down to the ground, and maneuvering into position. Scott, however, refused to cooperate, continuing to thrash feebly and push them away.

"Hold his arms down," Riding instructed, as he attempted to replace the nasal prongs Scott had just pulled out of his nose. "What's his name?"

"Scott," Noah answered, as he adjusted his position, latching onto each of Scott's wrists and pulling them loosely across his body.

"Scott, we need you to calm down so we can help you. Ok?" Riding instructed. "Stop fighting us." Scott, unfortunately, didn't respond. "Let's push 40 mg of ketamine, IV if we can."

"I'll hold him." Marsh, another paramedic, said before taking Scott's arm and turning it to expose the inside of his elbow. As he held Scott in place, Riding pushed a needle in.

"Got it!" Seconds after the proclamation, Scott went limp in his arms, sending Noah into a panic.

"What happened? Is he alright?"

"It's ok. We just gave him a sedative," Marsh assured him as they continued to work, replacing the nasal prongs and inserting an IV catheter. "Do you know what medications he's taken?"

"He took albuterol twice through an inhaler and twice with a nebulizer. Stiles said he took a pill, so probably, uh-" Noah pressed his lips together and shook his head, as he struggled to remember the name. "It's a steroid," he finally told him, unable to offer more.

"Prednisone?"

"Yes!" Noah practically exclaimed, "prednisone."

"His respiratory rate is decreasing," Riding announced, "ETCO2's rising. We're going to have to bag him."

Marsh moved quickly, placing the mask over Scott's mouth, and compressing the bag gently. "He's really tight," he said as he worked, "I've got almost no air movement. Lets push 0.2 mg of epi."

Staring at the monitor the EMTs had attached to Scott, Noah watched with bated breath, as the little triangles skipped across the screen. He didn't know what it meant, only that it wasn't good.

He'd seen Scott have an attack before, had seen him struggle to catch his breath, had heard him wheeze and cough. Hell, Noah had even watched as he was rushed off in an ambulance after being ripped into by a dog. However, nothing he'd seen before compared to this, and all he could think about was how he was going to explain to Melissa that her son had died in his care.

"We've got some respiratory effort," Marsh announced, just as the triangles changed shape, morphing into what Noah could only describe as shark fins.

"Yeah," Riding agreed. "Alright, let's move him."

The EMTs quickly lifted Scott's limp body from Noah's arms and secured it onto the stretcher, before loading him into the back of the ambulance.

"You ok to follow us, Sheriff?" Riding asked, slamming the doors shut as Marsh climbed into the back with Scott.

"Yeah," Noah replied, distractedly. "Yeah, I'll be right behind you."

Riding nodded before jogging to the front of the ambulance.

Noah waited until they had gotten turned around and were underway before turning back to the cruiser. It was then that he remembered Stiles. "Shit," he muttered under his breath before hustling to the open back door. Crouching down, he looked inside to see Stiles pressed against the far door, knees pulled up to his chest, and tears flowing down his cheeks.

"Is he gonna die?" he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

"No, no," Noah assured him as he lowered himself onto the seat. "He was already starting to get better when they put him on the ambulance."

"I don't understand why that happened," Stiles said as tears started flowing anew down his cheeks. "He did everything he was supposed to do, so why did that happen?"

"I don't know," Noah confessed, "it's just something that happens sometimes."

"But he goes to the doctor's so much, shouldn't they know how to fix it?"

"They're trying," Noah assured him. "They're trying really hard to stop it from happening, but some things aren't easy to fix or can't be fixed."

"Like Mom."

"Like Mom." A moment of silence stretched out between them, before Noah reached out and patted him on the knee. "Come on, I'm sure Scott will want his best friend to be there when he wakes up."

Stiles nodded, before slowly unfolding himself and opening the door. As the two of them climbed in the front he said, "We have to call Melissa."

"I know," Noah said, as dread twisted in his gut. "I'll call her once we get moving."

Scene Break

Melissa drew in a deep breath when she saw Scott flutter his eyes open, a sign that the sedation was finally starting to wear off. It had been almost an hour since they'd brought him in, with a PAS score of 9, and had started him on a continuous albuterol nebulizer. He had responded to the epi the paramedics had administered and the steroids, but he still wasn't out of the woods.

"Hey, Sweetheart," she murmured as she stood up from the chair beside his bed. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead, mindful not to displace the nebulizer mask, as she ran her fingers through his hair.

"I'm- sorry," he forced out, unable to speak in more than short choppy phrases.

"Sshh," she consoled him, "try not to talk, ok. Just focus on your breathing."

"Did- everything," he told her, eyes drifting shut as he struggled to fight off the lingering effects of the ketamine.

"I know," she assured him, "it wasn't your fault. Stiles and the Sheriff told me what happened."

"Ruined- Stiles's- birthday," he choked, as tears started to stream down his face and his chest started to heave in agitation.

"Scott, honey, you need to calm down," Melissa instructed, as she adjusted the bed into an even more upright position after hitting the call button. "Try to take slow deep breaths."

"Whatcha need, Melissa?" Naomi asked as she entered the room.

"He's tightening back up."

"Call Dr. Crumpton!" Naomi called out to the nurses' station, before turning back to Scott. "What's going on, Buddy? You were doing so good."

"He started getting upset," Melissa answered as she gripped Scott's hand.

"Yeah, we can't have that can we, Scott?" Naomi asked, as she started checking his vitals. "Make sure he stays upright," she instructed Melissa as she lowered the bed back down. "It's really important that you try to stay calm, ok?" she told Scott, as she listened to his chest. "Focus on taking slow deep breaths."

Scott nodded, as his grip tightened on Melissa's hand.

At that moment, Dr. Crumpton entered the room. "What have we got?"

"PAS score's up two points. He's got both inspiratory and expiratory wheezing and retractions, most likely triggered by emotional distress."

Crumpton nodded as he listened briefly to Scott's lungs. "Let's push another round of epi, 0.2 mg and increase the albuterol dosage to 15 mg/hr for the next hour. If he doesn't improve, we'll consider IV magnesium sulfate."

Scene Break

Stiles knocked lightly from where he lingered in the doorway to the hospital room, causing Scott to look up from where he was tying his shoes. "Hey," Stiles greeted tentatively, feeling an awkwardness he rarely felt around his best friend.

"Hey," Scott replied quietly, seemingly just as uncomfortable.

"Sorry, for not coming in earlier," Stiles told him, resisting the urge to bit at his fingernails, "but they weren't letting anyone besides your Mom come back, and then they admitted you and-"

"It's ok." Scott interrupted, giving him what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile, "I- wasn't really great company anyway." A heavy silence hung in the air for a moment, before Scott continued. "My mom said you guys waited around for like- two hours, and then you practically begged your dad to let you stay. I know it couldn't have been fun, so- thanks. It means a lot."

Stiles shrugged as a smile pulled at his lips, feeling some of the tension lift. "At least you picked an uneventful night to almost die. I didn't have to witness any gruesome stabbings or gunshot wounds."

Scott laughed briefly, before the sound quickly morphed into a mild coughing fit.

Stiles immediately took a step forward, hand outstretched towards his friend. "Scott?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm ok," Scott told him as the fit subsided.

"You sure?" Stiles asked, wanting to believe but unable to shake the image of Scott climbing up the seat of the cruiser, gasping for breath.

"Yeah," Scott assured him. "I'm still having symptoms," he explained, "but they're mild enough that I can go home."

"That's safe?" Stiles asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, they do it all the time." Stiles blinked, at the confession, horrified at the thought that Scott was going home before he was completely better. "Anyway," Scott continued, as if he'd just admitted a terrible truth. "I thought you would have jumped at the chance to see those things."

"Well," Stiles stuttered, struggling for a moment to place the thread of the conversation. "Yeah, except for the blood and stuff. You know I can't handle the gross. At least, not outside of photos. Are you sure you should be going home?" he asked, unable to let the matter slide.

Scott smiled reassuringly. "I'm sure, or well, they're sure. The doctors I mean." He frowned then, suddenly leaning back over to tie his shoes, avoiding looking at Stiles. "Sorry, I ruined your birthday."

Stiles scoffed. "Really? If anyone should be apologizing for that it should be my dad. He's the one who wouldn't let the girls sleep over and he confiscated my porno."

"His porno," Scott countered, unable to resist the tease.

"Semantics."

"Hey, boys," Melissa called as she poked her head in the door. "Scott, I've got you all checked out, so if you're ready."

Scott nodded, pushing off the bed as he slipped his jacket on. Stiles watched, anxiously biting at his fingernails as Scott sat in wheelchair. The thought that they were leaving still bothered him, but at least he could find comfort in the fact that both he and Melissa would be there.

"Alright," Melissa declared, as she handed Scott a plastic bag full of his clothes and medications, "let's get you two home."

"Can we stop and get breakfast on the way?" Stiles asked hopefully. "I'm starving."

"I'll cook breakfast for you when we get home," Melissa replied as she pushed Scott down the hall, "I'm not risking stopping somewhere Scott might encounter a trigger."

"Can you make the Mexican scrambled eggs?" Stiles asked excitedly as they made their way into the elevator.

Melissa laughed lightly, "we'll see," she told him as she ushered them to the car.

Chapter #4 - Lacrosse Practice

"Dude?" Stiles asked as he dropped his backpack unceremoniously on the bench and leaned heavily against the lockers, leveling his best friend with an incredulous look. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like- I'm doing?" Scott asked, his sarcasm tempered by his slightly labored breathing, as he fumbled to pull his shirt off over his head.

"Normally, I'd say it looks like you're getting ready for practice," Stiles snarked, "buuut I know that can't be it. Hence the question. What're you doing?"

"I'm fine."

"No," he argued, giving Scott a look that spoke volumes to how ridiculous he found that statement, "you are definitely not fine. Fine would not entail coughing, or heavy breathing, or sitting like you've got a rod shoved up your ass. Fine would be green, and this," he said as he gestured at Scott, "this is not green. This is- this is yellow is what this is and yellow is definitely not fine."

"What?" Scott asked in bewilderment, before turning away to cough into his elbow.

"My point exactly," Stiles stated smugly, using the forced confidence to mask his concern. He waited until the fit ended before looking at his friend expectantly.

"I just- need to use my inhaler," Scott tried to assure him, before leaning forward and resting his head against the top shelf in his locker.

"Again?" Stiles asked in disbelief. "Dude, how many times have you used it since lunch?" That was when this had all started, when Brian had sprayed half a can of Axe in the middle of the hallway, right beside him and Scott. The cloud had been large and potent, so much so that even Stiles had been left choking and gagging.

Scott shrugged, as he straightened up. "Three times?"

"Three- three times?" Stiles stuttered. "So, this would be the fourth time? Four times in three hours?"

"So?" Scott asked defensively, as he pulled his pads out of the locker.

"So," he reiterated, mouth gaping open in disbelief. "So, that's way too many times. That's barely even yellow, that's borderline red!"

"You have my action plan- memorized?" Scott asked, incredulously.

"Uh yeah. Have you completely forgotten my 13th birthday? Because I haven't. Second worst birthday of my life, and if you don't mind, I'd like to avoid a repeat. So please, just-" Stiles took a breath, voice softening before he practically pleaded, "please, just stop."

Scott closed his eyes and sat heavily on the bench, keeping his back straight to try and ease his breathing. One hand gripped the seat, the other at his chest in what Stiles knew was an indication of the tightness that had settled there. "Eliminations are today." He paused to take a breath, the action eliciting another burst of coughs. "If I don't practice, I won't play."

Stiles scoffed. "I think the fact that we're freshman on a team that's won the state championship the last two years pretty much guarantees our stays as benchwarmers."

"We at least have to try!" Scott exclaimed, the outburst eliciting another fit. This one was longer, with shallow coughs that left him wheezing.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Scott slip his pads over his head, his movements seemingly sluggish and lacking coordination. The entire situation was ridiculous, and for the life of him, Stiles couldn't figure out why Scott was being such a stubborn jackass.

Not that Scott couldn't be just as hardheaded as the best of them, but usually it was over something that was actually significant, like bullying or animal cruelty or the overtime Melissa was often forced to work. Not something as trivial as lacrosse practice.

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, as he continued to watch his best friend gear-up, before shaking his head in disbelief. "Unbelievable," he muttered as he pushed unkindly past Scott and started making his way towards Coach's office.

"What are you doing?" Scott asked, alarmed.

"I'm going to go talk to Coach."

"You're ratting me out?"

"Uh, yeah, Scott," Stiles retorted, stopping to turn back to his friend. "I am, because apparently the lack of oxygen isn't allowing you to make smart decisions."

"I said- I'm fine," Scott countered, the broken statement and the latest coughing fit thoroughly negating his argument.

"Obviously," Stiles scoffed, before turning and storming into Coach's office.

Scene Break

"Coach?"

Bobby glanced up from the pile of papers littering his desk as one of his players, a freshman, and not a very promising one, burst into his office. "What do you want St- Mi- Bi-" he stuttered in annoyance as he tried to remember the stupid kid's name. "What do you want?"

"It's Stilinski, Coach," the kid supplied helpfully, to which Bobby rewarded him with an irritated glare. "I think you should know that Scott's having what are definitely moderate asthma symptoms, yet he's insisting on trying to practice."

"Who the hell is Scott?" Bobby asked, disgruntled and confused as to why he was being forced to have this conversation, especially when he needed to be finding the stat sheets for practice. "And what are you his mother?"

"No, I'm-"

"I'm Scott, Coach." McCall, another freshman, one with third line potential at best, chimed in from where he leaned against the doorframe. "And I'm fine, just needed to- use my inhaler," he added, holding up said inhaler for emphasis.

Bobby eyed them critically, trying to discern the level bullshit each was protruding. McCall looked fine, breathing a little heavy maybe, but not gasping or anything ridiculous like that. Plus, the kid had passed his physical and who was Bobby to argue with the trained professionals. "You're sure?" he asked, because it never hurt to CYA.

"Yeah," McCall replied, breaking off to cough into his elbow. "I'm-I'm good to go."

"You hear that Milinski," Bobby said, turning back to the other kid. "He says he's good to go."

"Yeah, but-"

"Gilinski!" Bobby barked, "if he says he's fine, then he's fine. Now stop mother-henning your friends and get out of my office."

Scene Break

Stiles stormed out of Coach's office and back to their lockers, where he made a scene out of getting ready, slamming and shoving and manhandling every article of clothing and piece of equipment that could be slammed, shoved, or manhandled.

"Are you- seriously pissed right now?" Scott asked in disbelief as he approached cautiously.

"Yes," Stiles replied curtly as he threw his pads over his head and jammed the snaps closed, "I'm seriously pissed right now."

"The albuterol just needs time to work," Scott insisted as he leaned heavily against the lockers.

Stiles watched as Scott's eyes slipped closed and his hand came up once again to grip and rub at his chest. Shaking his head, Stiles forced himself to look away. "Multiple doses have had over three hours to work," he reminded his friend, as he threw his gym bag over his shoulder.

Scott opened his mouth, but then merely looked away in response, unable to argue and apparently unwilling to back down.

Pressing his lips together, Stiles shook his head once more. "You know what, I hope you're right," he said as he snatched up his stick. "I really do, but if you're wrong and you die out there, don't look to me to save you." With that he turned and stalked out of the locker room.

Scene Break

Despite his earlier comments, Stiles couldn't help but shoot worried glances back at his friend as they trudged across campus to the practice field. Part of him was pissed at what a complete dumbass Scott was being, while the other was genuinely concerned about what would happen if he continued to ignore his symptoms and actually tried to practice.

Stiles had witnessed Scott have a severe attack once — well, technically twice, but the whole exchange with that depraved dog had usurped any recollection of an asthma flare-up —. It was truly terrifying to watch and he really hoped he wouldn't have to see a repeat performance. Thankfully, he usually didn't have to worry about it too much, because Scott wasn't one to downplay the seriousness of his condition. Today, however, was apparently going to be an exception to that rule.

"Hey, Dip-Shit," Jackson taunted as he shouldered past, knocking the lacrosse stick out of Stiles's hand, "you might want to check on your girlfriend. She's not looking too hot."

"Thanks, Jackson," Stiles bit back, the words dripping with sarcasm, as he waved at the captain's back. "You fucking dick," he muttered as he bent down to pick up his stick.

"Seriously, though," Danny told him, as he trailed shortly after Jackson, smacking Stiles good naturedly on the back as he walked past. "Scott's not looking too good."

"I know," Stiles groused, tilting his head back in frustration. He stood there for a moment, warring over what he should do. He couldn't force Scott to see reason. He couldn't force Coach to care about a no-account freshman. Which meant that at this point, there wasn't much left that he could do, except continue to beg and plead, essentially harass Scott into submission. Lips pressed together in irritation, Stiles braced himself for the battle ahead, and then turned around.

Scott was, unsurprisingly, at the back of the group, practically staggering as he struggled to make the trek to the practice field. Shaking his head yet again, Stiles dumped his gear and jogged back to his friend.

"I thought- you weren't- talking to me," Scott cut out, traces of anger and actual hurt clouding his words, but Stiles could also hear the gratitude buried beneath ragged breaths.

"No," he drawled, as he snatched the gym bag off Scott's shoulder. "I said I wasn't saving you, not that I wasn't talking to you. Talking to you might actually prevent me from having to refuse to save you so- Whoa," he exclaimed, his rant dying on his lips, as Scott swayed on his feet, before reaching out and latching onto Stiles's arm.

"Scott, you ok?" Stiles asked urgently, trying to catch his friend's eye, as his mental alarms screamed RED RED RED.

"Can't," Scott gasped, his breaths turning rapid and shallow, as he grabbed at his chest and squeezed Stiles's arm.

"You can't breathe?" Stiles asked stupidly. Of course he couldn't breathe. It was obvious he couldn't breathe. "Ok," Stiles said, as he fought down his panic, grabbing a hold of Scott, to try and steady him. "Ok, just sit down."

Scott practically collapsed, nearly dragging Stiles with him in the process.

"Where's your inhaler?" Stiles asked, though the question was essentially rhetorical, as he quickly retrieved it from its designated pocket in Scott's gym bag.

"Took-it."

"Well, take it again," he said as he thrust the thing into Scott's hands, before turning his attention back to the gym bag. "Where's your phone?" he asked, as he desperately rummaged through his friend's stuff.

"Same-" Scott practically whispered, as he gestured weakly at the bag, the word so faint and broken that Stiles barely heard it.

"Same?" he asked, momentarily confused. "Same what? Same pocket?" At Scott's nod, Stiles doubled back and rechecked the inhaler pocket, almost crying out in relief when found the phone tucked inside.

"You guys ok?" Stiles glanced up to find Danny jogging over to them, concern clearly written across his face.

"No!" Stiles barked, as he quickly dialed 911. "Go get Coach!"

Scene Break

"Coach!"

Bobby turned and watched as Danny ran up to him from the wrong side of the practice field. "What the hell, Danny?" he barked, making no effort to hide his annoyance. "Why aren't you out there warming up?"

"There's something seriously wrong with Scott," Danny told him, as if that were an acceptable excuse. "One of the freshmen," he added, when Bobby didn't immediately respond.

"Yeah, I know who Scott is," Bobby replied tersely. He had no idea who Scott was, not that that concerned him. What did concern him was how unsettled Danny seemed. "Now, just slow down and tell me what's going on," he ordered.

"I'm not sure," Danny explained quickly. "He didn't look too good as we were walking over, like he was sick or something. When he and Stiles never made it to the field, I went back to check on them. Scott had an inhaler, so maybe an asthma attack or something."

"Christ," Bobby muttered under his breath, suddenly knowing all too well who Scott was. "Have Jackson keep the team occupied," he instructed, before thrusting his clipboard at Danny and jogging back towards the locker room.

Not far from the practice field, he found Stilinski kneeling overtop of McCall. McCall was laying on the ground unconscious; his face was pale and his lips were tinged blue. "Christ," he swore again, as the seriousness of the situation finally sank in.

"Is he getting any air at all?" a disembodied female voice asked from what Bobby realized was a cellphone on speaker.

"I don't know," Stiles snapped at the dispatcher, "his chest is rising, but he's turning blue."

"He's turning blue?" the dispatcher asked, calmly seeking confirmation.

"Yes!"

"Then, even if he's getting some air, he's definitely not getting enough," she informed them, stating what Bobby felt was pretty obvious. "So what I want you to do is to help him breathe, by breathing into his mouth, until the paramedics get there."

"I'll do it," Bobby volunteered begrudgingly as he knelt beside McCall and across from Stilinksi, guilt and culpability eating away at his conscience, and pushing aside the uncomfortable thought of putting his mouth on a student's. That and the fact that it looked like Stilinksi was going to blow an aneurysm at any moment.

"Make sure you breathe with him and not against him," the dispatcher continued to instruct from afar, "try to match your breaths with the rise of his chest."

Taking a breath to calm his nerves, Bobby tilted McCall's head back and pinched his nose, as fragments of the CPR training he'd had at the inservice training 2 years ago came back to him. Once he was confident that the kid was properly positioned, he breathed into the boy's mouth, timing his breath to match the rise of McCall's chest.

Air inflated the kid's mouth, puffing out his cheeks, and pressing back against Bobby before escaping through the imperfect seal of his lips. "Christ," he swore yet again, his gut twisting at the realization of just how little air had gone through and what that meant about how closed the kid's lungs were. "Come on, McCall," he muttered, before attempting a second breath.

Scene Break

Stiles sat there, chewing convulsively on his fingernails, as he watched Coach breathe for Scott, looking for any indication that his friend was improving. There was nothing. Scott didn't regain consciousness. The muscles in his neck and shoulders didn't loosen. Hell, Stiles could barely see his chest rise and fall, even with Coach pushing air into it. "This isn't working!" he ground out, angry and frustrated, and more than a little terrified.

"Is anything getting through?" the dispatcher, a rookie that Stiles didn't yet know, asked.

"I don't know," Coach replied tersely. "It's like- trying to inflate a- a water balloon."

Stiles tensed at the comparison. You didn't inflate water balloons. You couldn't inflate water balloons. He had tried once, and then twice, and so-on and so-forth, until he'd been out of breath and his cheeks had burned from the effort. If that was Scott's lungs, then that meant that his friend was getting almost no oxygen. That meant that Scott was literally suffocating right there in front of him. The thought was enough to make him light-headed and dizzy, and he had to fight off the urge to vomit.

"Ok, I want you to keep trying until the paramedics get there," the dispatcher encouraged, her calm assurance grating on Stiles's nerves.

Coach continued to try and push air into Scott's lungs for what felt like an eternity, until Stiles couldn't take it anymore. "There has to be something else we can do!" he exploded as he pushed himself to his feet. "He's literally dying and we're just sitting here!"

"Stilinski!" Coach barked, as he quit breathing for Scott to glare up at Stiles. "If you don't stop with the soul-sucking negativity, I'm going to punch you in the face."

Stiles froze, glaring down at Coach, as the anger that had been festering inside him, feeding off his fear, suddenly boiled over. "I told you!" he shouted, lashing out at the unfairness of it all. "I came to you for help, I told you he was in trouble, and you ignored me! You brushed us aside because we weren't important enough!"

"Look," Coach snapped, "you can either stand there and point fingers or you can get your ass down here and help me save your friend."

Stiles opened his mouth, but whatever retort he was about to make was cut off by the dispatcher. "Stiles," she called out, firm but still calm. "I know it might not seem like it, but you guys are doing all you can right now," she assured him. "It's very important that you try to remain calm until the ambulance arrives."

The words had no sooner left her mouth then Stiles heard the sirens and saw the flashing lights. "Oh thank god," he muttered, relieved that actual help had finally arrived.

Scene Break

Stiles could vividly remember the last time he'd been forced to watch EMTs work. It had been on his thirteenth birthday, and it had been for this exact same reason. Having witnessed a severe attack before, having basic knowledge as to what was going to happen next, didn't make it any easier watch.

"He's having agonal respirations," one of the paramedics, Marsh, if Stiles remembered correctly, stated, "we're going to need to intubate."

Stiles fought the urge to pace, anxiously chewing on his fingernails, as Marsh tilted Scott's head back and then tried to push his mouth open. "He's clenched tight," the EMT told his partner. "Keep ventilating. I'm going to try and pass it nasally." The other paramedic, a woman Stiles didn't recognize, resummed bagging while Marsh retrieved the nasal tube, stopping only when her partner had repositioned and was ready to try again.

Marsh tilted Scott's head back once again and slid the tube into his nose, eyes focused on Scott's chest, as if he were timing each advance with Scott's weak inhalations. "Agh!" the EMT exclaimed after a moment, "it's not working either." As he pulled back, Stiles watched blood slowly ooze out of Scott's nose. It was a small amount, barely a trickle, but the sight of it was enough to turn his stomach.

"I'm going to displace the jaw," Marsh informed them, "see if I can't pass it ET."

"You're going to dislocate his jaw?" Stiles asked, equal parts horrified and morbidly curious.

"I need to get a tube in," Marsh explained as he placed his fingers on either side of Scott's head, just below the ears, and pushed. There was a slight pop, a barely audible sound that had Stiles cringing, and then Scott's mouth fell open.

"Alright," Marsh said as he slipped the metal guide into Scott's mouth, "let's try this again."

Stiles held his breath, pacing back and forth and sucking blood from the hole he'd chewed in his finger, until Marsh proclaimed, "I'm in!"

The other EMT passed the bag over, allowing Marsh to attach it to the tube sticking out of Scott's mouth, as she listened to Scott's chest. "I've got increased wheezing bilaterally," she announced after two or three compressions.

"Alright, let's prep him to move," Marsh replied, as he taped the ET tube in place.

"We're taking him to Beacon Memorial," Marsh's partner told Coach as they strapped Scott to the stretcher, "one of you should notify his mother."

"I'll call her," Stiles spoke up, his voice cracking slightly as he watched them load his best friend into the back of the ambulance.

Scene Break

"I need to go with them," Stilinski stated as the ambulance drove off the practice field.

"Yeah, well, a little too late for that," Bobby practically sneered, his nerves and patience completely shot now that the adrenaline had faded. He'd seen his fair share of injured kids, kids with compound fractures and head injuries who were carted off the field on stretchers, lacrosse was a brutal sport after all. This was the first time, however, he'd ever come close to losing a player, and the reality of that was not sitting well.

"Alright," he announced, unable to muster his usual level of enthusiasm, as he turned back to where the rest of the team had knelt nearby, "let's start practice."

"What? No!" Stilinski exclaimed, as he stepped back and gestured in the direction of the ambulance. "No, I have to go with him."

"Look," Bobby snapped, "you missed your ride. Ok? So unless another means of transportation magically arrives, you're staying till the end of practice." It might have been a little harsh, even for his standards, but he'd never tip-toed around feelings before and he wasn't about to start now.

"I'll drive him," Danny chimed in, before turning to Stiles, "I'll drive you."

"Whoa there, Danny," Bobby interrupted. "Did you forget that today's eliminations? Did'ja? No practice means no first line, even if you're the best goalie on the team."

"Coach," Danny implored, though Bobby wasn't entirely convinced that there wasn't a little admonishment in there as well. "They literally just carried his best friend off the field in an ambulance."

Bobby glanced back and forth between the two, their pleading expressions wearing on his own guilt and concern. "Fine," he relented, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just- get back here as soon as you can," he ordered Danny. "And let us know that he's ok," he instructed Stilinski.

The two nodded before gathering up both Stilinski's and McCall's stuff and taking off towards the school's parking lot.

Scene Break

Stiles texted Melissa from Danny's car as they pulled out of the school parking lot. It was just one word: RED. Within moments, his phone was ringing.

"Stiles," she acknowledged brusquely, when he answered, "what's going on? Where is he?"

"In an ambulance," he told her, tears streaming down his face as the words broke the dam inside him, "on his way to the hospital."

Silence stretched between them before she asked, "How bad is it? Was he awake when they took him? Was he- was he breathing?"

"Barely," he admitted, as he sniffed loudly and wiped the tears from his cheeks. "He'd passed out, and, um, he was really pale and his lips were blue. They had to dislocate his jaw and put a tube down his throat."

There was more silence, silence that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, before she cleared her throat and uttered a broken, "Ok. I'm- I'm heading to the ambulance bay now. Are you ok?" she asked after another pause.

"Yeah," he replied, confused but also grateful that she'd asked. "I uh, I got a ride. We're following the ambulance in."

"Ok, I'll check in with you when I can," Melissa told him before ending the call.

Stiles let out a long deep breath, sniffing loudly as he wiped his face on his shirt sleeve.

"There's napkins in the glove box," Danny offered.

"Thanks," Stiles replied stiffly before retrieving one and blowing his nose.

They rode in silence the remainder of the way to the hospital, a tense awkward silence that only served to fuel his stress and anxiety. Feelings that were further amplified when they pulled into the emergency parking and he could see the ambulance.

They sat and watched as Marsh's partner hustled to the back and opened the doors, revealing a combative Scott fighting with the EMT.

Stiles couldn't help the choked laugh that escaped his lips as he looked at his best friend. He couldn't clearly make out what exactly was happening, but Scott was awake and fighting. Maybe it was for all the wrong reasons. Maybe it was the exact opposite of what he needed to be doing, but he was awake, and that was enough to flood Stiles with relief.

Reaching over, he clapped Danny on the shoulder. "Thank you," he told the older boy as he started to climb out of the car.

Danny smiled in return. "No problem. Don't worry about your stuff. I'll hold onto it till tomorrow. Tell Scott I'm glad he's doing better."

"I will," Stiles assured him as he closed the car door. "Thanks again."

Scene Break

Scott woke to the sight of Stiles glaring daggers at him from the chair beside the bed.

They'd taken the breathing tube out shortly after he arrived in the ER. After that, he'd spent another hour on the continuous nebulizer. Then, he had successfully passed the thirty minute trial and was now well into a two hour observation period. It was all part of a process that was designed to make sure that he didn't relapse into another attack. One with which he was becoming all too familiar.

"I hate you," his best friend proclaimed.

Scott smiled sleepily, exhaustion threatening to drag his eyes back closed. Attacks, at least the really bad ones, always brought with them a bone-deep weariness. The stress and panic, the overexertion of the muscles in his chest, abdomen, neck, and shoulders, all lead to an eventual crash and a general fatigue that could last for hours or even days.

"And don't smile at me," Stiles snapped, the anger buried beneath the words confusing him. "Nothing about this situation is smile-worthy."

"You're mad," he mumbled, wincing as his eyes drifted shut for a moment. His throat was still scratchy and raw from the ET tube and his jaw ached from both the dislocation and re-alignment.

"Yes!" Stiles exclaimed, casting a worried glance towards the nurses station before practically whispering. "Yes, I'm mad, and if I could actually yell at you without the risk of getting kicked out, I'd tell you just how mad I really am."

"I'm glad you can't yell at me," he croaked, his voice cracking with the strain.

"Shut up," Stiles ordered, though Scott could tell he was fighting a smile, "you're not supposed to be talking." Silence stretched between, during which Scott felt his eyes drift shut again. "Don't do that to me, man."

Scott's eyes fluttered as he forced himself to sit up a little straighter in an effort to stay awake. "Sorry," he whispered, frowning at the worry written across his friend's face. "It's a little out of my control."

"I know," Stiles acknowledged. "I know that severe means not well controlled. That it's not really a matter of if, but when, but- we have a plan. You have a plan," he corrected, "and you just-"

"I know," Scott interrupted, "and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you or anyone else through that, but-" he hesitated, unsure of what exactly he wanted to say, unsure of why it had mattered so much. "I just wanted a chance to-"

"To matter," Stiles finished, looking at him with eyes that spoke volumes to how well he understood.

Scott didn't answer, merely looked away as shame burned across his face and blurred his vision. He'd been stupid and beyond selfish, putting Stiles, his mom, and the team through hell, almost getting himself killed. For what? To play lacrosse? To climb a few rungs on the Beacon Hills social ladder? Two things that were almost guaranteed not to happen after today.

"Hey," Stiles called softly, the earnestness in his voice forcing Scott to turn back to look at him. "The way I see it, as long as we've got each other, we'll always matter."

Scott couldn't stop the snort of laughter that burst from him, as he looked away to wipe at his eyes. Biting his lip, he turned back to Stiles. "I love you, man," he whispered fondly and sincerely, before breaking out into a shit-eating grin.

"Shut up," Stiles groused, fighting off a smile of his own as he sat back in the chair. "You're not supposed to be talking."

Scene Break

Melissa knocked firmly on Bobby Finstock's office door, before boldly pushing it open. "Coach Finstock?" she asked, as she stepped inside.

"Yeah?" Coach replied, as he barely glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk.

"Hi," Melissa greeted, as she ventured further into the room. "I'm Melissa McCall, Scott's mom."

"McCall," Coach iriterated, as he leaned back in his chair. "Right. How's he doing?"

"Better," she replied, grateful for the truth of that statement. "They released him from the hospital that night, and, uh, he spent the weekend just kind of taking it easy. Recuperating."

"Great," Coach replied, in a tone that was somehow both genuine and sarcastic, "that's great. I appreciate you coming in to tell me," he told her before turning back to his stack of papers, a clear dismissal.

Undeterred, Melissa pulled out the chair in front of his desks and sat down. "I didn't come here just to report on his well-being."

"No?" he asked, still not looking up from his papers.

"Do you think you could give me your full attention?" she asked, trying to bite down on her irritation and not quite succeeding. "Just for a minute?"

Letting out a large put-upon sigh, Coach sat down his pen and leaned his elbows against the desktop. "Look," he told her, his annoyance evident in his tone, "I cut your son from the team because he literally almost died during practice."

Melissa grimaced, looking away briefly to squash her tears and school her features. "I understand why you might think that was necessary, but what happened on Friday was not- is not," she stressed, "a common occurrence."

"I would hope not," he scoffed.

"So, I'm asking you," she continued steadfastly, "to please not use it against him."

"Look, Ms. McCall," Coach stated, matter-of-factly, "I teach economics. A big portion of that is analyzing risks and rewards. From where I'm sitting, having your son on my team is all risk, no reward."

"For who?" she asked indignantly. "For you or for him? Because if we're talking about Scott, well- the risk is there whether he plays lacrosse or not." She paused, taking a long deep breath to quell her frustration and anger. "Listen," she implored, "Scott knows that his asthma is not well-controlled. He has well defined triggers which he does his best to avoid, but sometimes- sometimes, it doesn't matter what he's doing. So whether he's in class, or at home, or on the lacrosse field, the risk is essentially the same."

"I don't know," Coach whined, but Melissa could see that his resolve was starting to break. "It's a lot of responsibility-"

"Is he going to play?" she asked abruptly.

Coach scoffed. "No, he's terrible."

"Then just let him be on the team."

Chapter #5 - Raving

Derek gasped as he drug Scott out of the building, taking large gulps of fresh air in an effort to clear his lungs of the wolfsbane. Even with his limited exposure, he felt light-headed and dizzy, with a tightness in his chest, an agitation that had him staggering and coughing. He tripped over his own feet as a result, dragging Scott roughly down on top of him.

He laid there for a second, hugging Scott to his chest, acutely aware of how exposed and vulnerable they were, but needing a moment to catch his breath. The knife wounds on his back and forearm continued to burn in protest, sharp and piercing, instead of muted and dull, refusing to knit closed. It was possible that the blade could have been poisoned or the lacerations infected by exposure to the fumes. Either way, the situation wasn't good and he knew he needed to get them out there.

When the majority of the spots cleared his vision, Derek rolled Scott off of him and quickly assessed the damage. Scott was still shifted, his control hampered by the wolfsbane, as he lay motionless. There wasn't a physical wound on him, at least not one that Derek could see or smell, only the plant's toxic stench. It seemed to radiate from him, a noxious fume that continued to burn Derek's eyes and itch his nose.

"Scott," he called softy, giving the kid a slight shake. There was no response. Scott continued to lay still, perfectly still, so still that even his chest refused to rise or fall.

"Scott!" Derek called again, his eyes flashing red, an alpha demanding his beta's attention. Only Scott wasn't his beta. He never had been, and just as he'd refused Derek before, he refused him now. "Don't do this," Derek growled as he took hold of the teen's arm, unaware of the almost pleading quality to his tone and denying the fear that was starting to bubble up inside him.

Watching the teen's face, Derek twisted the limb. He could feel the bones break, grating against each other as they shifted beneath the skin. The assault garnered a reaction. Healing triggered, Scott's eyes fluttered beneath their closed lids and he shifted back, the pain making him human. His chest started to rise again, shallow rapid movements that generated a soft, deep whistling, like wind over a bottle top.

Derek frowned in confusion as he hovered uncertainly, unsure of what the noise meant. Something wasn't right, that much was obvious. There was too much Wolfsbane in his system, enough so that his healing couldn't combat it, couldn't flush it out. He needed help, and there was only one person Derek trusted enough to provide it.

Climbing to his feet, Derek hoisted Scott onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry, straining slightly under the weight, before hustling towards the parking lot and his car. He was winded by the time he reached it, his legs burning from the exertion. Pulling the passenger door open, he dumped the beta roughly onto the seat, before climbing in and speeding off towards the animal clinic.

Scene Break

Deaton looked up from the stool sample he was analyzing when he heard the front door to the clinic bang open forcefully. He was not necessarily surprised by the intrusion. Knowing what Scott and the others had planned for tonight and the inherent risks that came with such an endeavor, he had planned to be here should his services be required. While he was prepared for the possibility, he was still taken aback when a disheveled Derek Hale carried an unconscious Scott into the exam room.

"What happened?" he asked, concern overtaking his usually calm tone.

"Hunters," Derek replied as he struggled to sit Scott on the stainless exam table.

"Hunters?" Deaton repeated as he moved to help, placing one hand beneath Scott's head and the other under a shoulder to help gently lay him on the table. He'd been expecting kanima related injuries, but it was not surprising that they'd run into issues with the Argents.

Scott continued to tempt fate where Allison and the Argents were concerned, despite the warnings that came from both himself and Derek. It was a game far more dangerous than his young protege chose to believe or was willing to believe. It was this persistent faith, this belief in people, that gave Deaton hope, hope as to what Scott would become. That is, if it didn't kill him first.

Once Scott was laid out on the table, the first thing Deaton noticed were the retractions. His neck and shoulders were pulled tight as he heaved, struggling to breathe. "Do you know what happened?" Deaton asked as he grabbed his stethoscope.

"Wolfsbane," Derek answered, as he braced himself against the exam table. "I don't know what type; I'd never encountered it before, but she was burning it like incense. He was forced to inhale a lot of it."

Deaton nodded as he pressed his stethoscope to the teen's chest. He could hear wheezing in each lung field, during both inspiration and expiration. The sounds were distant and soft; however, muted to the point of concern. What was equally disconcerting was the faint, but very distinct, smell that he detected as he leaned closer, like lavender dipped in honey.

Looping his stethoscope around his neck, Deaton quickly crossed the room to the supply cabinets and retrieved two vials. The first came from the common medications he utilized at the clinic to treat his normal clientele, the other from the shelf reserved for less conventional patients.

"What is that?" Derek asked when he placed the vials on the exam table.

"Albuterol and Datura wrightii." At Derek's confused look, he elaborated, "moonflower."

"But moonflower's toxic," Derek argued, "like mistletoe."

"It is," Deaton agreed, as he retrieved the portable nebulizer, "but it's also highly effective at neutralizing this particular species of wolfsbane."

"Why the albuterol?"

Deaton suppressed a smile, as he glanced briefly at Talia's son. He didn't know Derek very well, only what he'd suffered and how it had hardened him. It was encouraging to see this side of him, to see him show concern, to know what he'd risked for a beta, even one not of his making.

"He needs to inhale the oils," Deaton explained, "but his airways are so constricted he's barely moving any air."

"What?" Derek scoffed, "like an asthma attack?"

"Yes," Deaton replied matter-of-factly as he added the beta-antagonist to the nebulizer and fit the mask snuggly over Scott's face. "This form of wolfsbane is particularly dangerous for someone like Scott. During a moderate or severe exacerbation, the airways become so constricted that the individual is unable to exhale completely. This not only makes it increasingly difficult to inhale, but also traps carbon dioxide in the lungs or in this case-"

"Wolfsbane," Derek finished, his expression grim.

Deaton nodded, as he listened once again to Scott's lungs. The retractions had already lessened, and the wheeze was becoming more pronounced.

"But he's a werewolf," Derek stated incredulously.

"He is, but receiving the bite doesn't necessarily cure any underlying conditions," Deaton explained. "The lycanthropy essentially eliminates the possibility of an attack-"

"Unless the trigger targets the supernatural."

"Precisely," Deaton agreed. "Similar to how the kanima venom enabled the flashing lights to trigger Erica's seizure." Derek's gaze hardened at that, his piercing gaze flashing red with suspicion. Deaton raised his hands in a calm, placating manner. "Scott told me," he clarified.

A tense silence settled between the, broken only by the gentle hiss of the nebulizer. Deaton allowed it to run for a few more minutes, before listening once more to Scott's lungs. The wheeze was loud and distinct now, and apparent only on exhalation.

"He's already much improved," he announced, "I think we can try the Datura now."

Derek remained quiet for a moment, his expression pensive, before stating, "He sounds worse."

Deaton smiled as he retrieved the other via. "His airways were too constricted, when you first brought him in, to produce much of a wheeze. The fact that it's grown louder indicates that the spasms are loosening. Trust me," he added when Derek looked less than convinced, "it's a good sign."

"You'll need to hold him," he instructed as he readied the plant oil, "this is going to be quite painful." Deaton waited until Derek had ahold of Scott's shoulders before dropping the moonflower into the nebulizer.

Not two seconds after the oils had been added, Scott's body arched up from the table. His eyes, blazing gold with pain, flew open, as a pitiful scream choked forth from his abused lungs. He thrashed weakly, as uncoordinated hands tried to pry the mask from his face. Deaton grabbed a hold of them, pinning them to the table as Derek held the rest of him down.

"Scott, you need to calm down," Deaton coaxed, "don't fight it."

Surprisingly, Scott did settle, causing Deaton to look up in confusion. Pain clouded Derek's face as black tendrils ran up his arms and into his neck.

"Careful," he warned, "don't take too much."

Derek nodded, though he didn't let up, continuing to absorb what appeared to be every bit of Scott's pain.

"Derek!" Deaton cautioned, his voice stern with authority. With a gasp, Derek let go, staggering backwards before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Scene Break

Scott had quieted, lulled back into unconsciousness by the removal of both the wolfsbane and his pain. Confident that the teen was no longer in immediate danger, Deaton circled the table and crouched in front of Talia's son.

"How much of it did you inhale?" he asked, watching as Derek struggled to push himself upright.

"I'm fine," Derek responded, even as he failed to do so much as push himself into a sitting position.

"Clearly," Deaton deadpanned, "but you failed to answer my question. How much did you inhale?"

"I don't know," Derek admitted, "I was only exposed for two maybe three minutes."

Deaton nodded, before offering a hand and hauling the other man to his feet. Derek was far from steady, so he helped him stagger the few steps to the chair against the wall, where he all but collapsed as Deaton lowered him on it.

Returning to the exam table, Deaton checked on Scott, satisfied to find him still breathing slow and deep, before retrieving the Datura. He also grabbed a bottle of alcohol, some gauze pads, and tape before turning back to Derek.

"I'm fine," Derek insisted breathily. "You should be looking after Scott."

"The pallor of your skin and the thin layer of perspiration say otherwise," Deaton countered. "Plus, there is a cut on your arm that is refusing to heal."

Derek hesitated, whether unwilling or unable to concede the need for assistance Deaton didn't know, but it pained him nonetheless. "You can trust me, Derek," he assured him. "Let me help you."

Derek looked at him, eyes full of distrust, searching for deception, searching for the lie. Deaton waited, patiently and calmly, until Derek relented, nodding in consent.

Deaton squeezed two droplets of the moonflower oil onto a piece of gauze and held it out to the younger man. "Breath this in," he instructed, "it will burn, but the pain will lessen as the wolfsbane is neutralized."

Derek brought the cloth square to his face and took a tentative sniff. The odor, which Deaton knew to be mildly sweet and soothing, causing him to recoil.

"Breath it in until it's no longer painful," Deaton instructed as he pushed the gauze back to his face. Derek begrudgingly obeyed, as Deaton inspected the cut on his forearm. It was deep, but he'd seen werewolves recover from far worse in far less time. There should no longer be any evidence of the wound, were he healing properly.

"It is likely the blade was poisoned. This may sting a little," he warned before dropping the Datura oil into the wound. Derek hissed loudly, the sound almost coming out as a snarl, as he jerked his arm away, cradling it protectively to his body.

Deaton looked at him sympathetically, waiting until Derek presented his arm once more, before further cleaning the wound with alcohol and wrapping it with gauze. "Is this the only one?"

Derek didn't reply. He simply leaned forward and lifted his shirt to reveal a second laceration. It was much larger than the other, running at least 3 inches in length and deep enough that Deaton could see the smooth white bone of the scapula. "This will hurt much worse," he warned.

"Just do it," Derek grumbled.

Deaton stuck the tip of the dropper deep into the laceration, before saturating it with moonflower oil. Derek's entire body went rigid, as he hunched over, but no sound escaped his lips. Once the wolfsbane was neutralized, Deaton worked quickly to further clean and bandage the wound, before easing Derek's shirt back down and helping him sit back up.

"These will heal slowly," Deaton cautioned, "but they will heal."

Derek didn't respond, though to be fair, it didn't look as if he had the energy to. Giving the younger man his space, Deaton returned to Scott.

He turned off the nebulizer and removed the mask. After setting the equipment aside, he listened to his lungs once more. The breath sounds were deep and clear, with no indication of a wheeze or other obstruction. Satisfied that the teen would make a full recovery, he started cleaning up the work space.

"You really care about him don't you?" Derek asked as Deaton busied himself with returning the nebulizer.

"Scott started volunteering here when he was 10 years old," Deaton said as a way of answering, "cleaning cages and feeding the animals. In the seven years I've known him, I've come to learn one definitive truth."

"What's that?"

"That he will always try to do the right thing," Deaton replied, "no matter the cost to himself."

A silence stretched between them after that, but it was not necessarily strained or uncomfortable, merely pensive. When he'd finished putting everything away, Deaton checked on Scott once more.

"Thank you," Derek said.

Deaton turned to meet his eye. He nodded in response, offering a tight smile before returning to the stool samples he'd been examining earlier, a means of passing the time until Scott awoke.

Chapter #6 - Status Asthmaticus

Scott knew. He knew, as the wolfsbane worked to constrict his lungs, as he stared down his beta, a beta frightened by the threat of losing Hayden and enraged by the pull of the super moon, that he was not going to walk away from this unscathed.

The fight that ensued was brutal, made all the worse because of his opponent, but he had tried. He had tried to simply defend himself in hopes that Liam would see reason, had tried to talk his beta down from the ledge. He had tried to save his own life when it became apparent that there was no other choice but to fight back. In the end, though, it had not been enough. Weakened by his attempts to break the mountain ash barrier, struggling to breathe through lungs poisoned with wolfsbane, separated from his pack in more ways than one, physically and mentally and emotionally defeated, he was eventually cut down.

Scott didn't know how many times he'd fallen before he no longer had the strength to get back up, before it was all he could do to just keep his hands up, to try and protect himself, as Liam ripped into him. Tearing and clawing at his chest and face, his beta raged against the fear and anger that consumed him. As Scott lay there in the rubble, beaten and broken, his breath coming in short ragged gasps, he couldn't believe that this was going to be it. That after everything they'd overcome, Peter and Jackson, Deucalion and Jennifer, the Nogisune, Assassins and Kate, after all of it, it wouldn't be one of his enemies, but a friend who would deal the final blow.

Scene Break

"Liam!" Mason shouted again and again, horrified at what he was seeing, at what his best friend was doing, helpless to make it stop. Don't do this, he begged silently, please don't do this.

Thankfully, Liam's hand stilled, frozen in place as the rage loosened its grip and he gradually came back to himself. Mason watched as he turned his head slowly, his golden eyes dimming as he took in the deep red stains on his claws. Blood. Scott's blood. "Liam," Mason whispered, "what are you doing?"

"Hayden." It was little more than a whisper. Mason wasn't even sure he'd actually heard it, but the despair it carried rang loud and clear.

"She's gone," Mason told him. "Hayden died a few minutes ago. She's gone."

Liam stared at him, blue eyes begging him to take it back, begging for it to be a lie. "I'm sorry," Mason whispered, unable to deny the truth.

Liam choked back a sob, bringing his blood stained hand up to muffle the sound. Mason took a tentative step forward, watching as his friend looked between him and Scott, watching as the reality of what he'd done crashed into him.

"Liam," he called softly, trying to instill calm, trying to offer comfort.

Another sob, broken and full of regret, escaped his lips and then Liam ran, pushing himself off the floor and fleeing towards the door.

"Liam!" Mason yelled, watching as his friend bolted out of the library. He stood there for a moment, hoping Liam would come back, but knowing in his heart that he wouldn't.

A soft groan had him turning from the door, had him turning back towards Scott.

Mason approached tentatively, afraid of what he was going to find, of what his friend may have done. "Scott?" he asked quietly, when he finally reached the senior and crouched down beside him.

Scott's eyes were closed and his face was covered in blood, but he was breathing. It was labored, whether because of his wounds or his asthma Mason couldn't tell, but he was breathing. He was also shifted, which Mason thought was a good thing. If he was shifted then that might mean he was drawing on his supernatural strength, that he would be more likely to heal.

Red flickered behind Scott's eyelids, before he gasped awake, an ugly ragged sound that had Mason wincing in sympathy. "Scott?" he called again.

"I'm ok," Scott whispered, his eyes sliding shut for a moment before he tried to push himself off the floor.

Mason hovered awkwardly, wanting to argue, to tell him to just stay lay still, to take it easy, but he held his tongue. He really didn't know Scott that well, and it didn't feel right, didn't feel like his place, to bark orders. Instead, he climbed to his own feet, helping the alpha as he struggled to stand.

"Scott, what happened?" Mason asked, as he slung the senior's arm over his shoulder, taking most of his weight.

"It was- the super moon," Scott forced out, shrugging his shoulder in exhaustion and defeat, "it was just-"

"Bad timing," Theo finished as he stalked up to them, anger and malice written all over his face. "I mean seriously, you couldn't have waited five minutes?" he sneered as he grabbed a hold of Mason, ripping him away from Scott and tossing him aside as if he were nothing.

Scene Break

Scott swayed, barely managing to stay on his feet as Mason was torn away and sent crashing to the floor. He stood there, simply trying to breathe, trying not to collapse, knowing he needed to try and summon the will, summon the energy, to fight. But the truth was he had nothing left. He had lost, he'd lost all of it, and part of him was glad that it was going to be over, that he would be done, that he wouldn't have to fight any more.

"I should have stayed," Theo jeered, looking him up and down with disdain. "I should have made sure."

"Because now- you have to kill me yourself," Scott affirmed. Not "try" or "attempt," he knew it was coming. He knew Theo was going to kill him.

"They're still mine," Theo taunted. "Maybe not yet, but they'll come around." He stated it as fact, as if it were an absolute, but Scott could hear the doubt hidden beneath the bravado.

"Not- for you," he all but whispered, voicing Theo's fear, shattering the chimera's resolve and provoking him to act. He gasped as the other boy drove his claws into his abdomen, choking on the pain and collapsing into the chimera. "They're not like you," he choked out, as he clung desperately to the other boy, "they never will be."

The claws buried inside him spread, ripping his flesh, and allowing the chimera to push deeper. "Because I'm a chimera?" Theo asked as he twisted, widening the chasm in Scott's chest. "Because I'm not a real werewolf?"

"Because- you're barely even human," Scott whispered.

Theo snickered, a cruel disgusted sound, before driving him across the room.

Scott staggered, arms flailing as he backpedaled, trying to keep his feet under him. He lost his balance against the steps, tumbling backwards and crashing onto the staircase. He hit hard, the sharp edge of one step slamming into his back as his head bounced off another.

Theo used the impact to drive his hand deeper into his chest. Scott could feel the claws reach up under his rib cage, scratching at his lungs and reaching for his heart. He choked on the overwhelming pain, suffocating as his lungs collapsed, drowning in his own blood.

By the time Theo ripped his hand free, dragging his claws against Scott's mangled flesh to worsen the wound, Scott could no longer feel any pain. Instead, all he felt was cold, cold and alone. His thoughts turned briefly to Stiles and Lydia and the rest of his fractured pack, before settling on his mother. It broke his heart to know the anguish this would cause her. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, that he loved her, but he had neither the strength nor the breath to form the words. As the blackness closed in, poised to overtake him, he let himself go.

Scene Break

A light appeared in the blackness, an impossibly bright pinprick, that burned brighter than the sun, but was somehow not painful to look at. It hovered for a moment, there in the distance, beckoning to him, calling his name, before rushing at him, growing in size as it approached. He was not afraid. In fact, he welcomed it. He welcomed it because he knew. He knew it meant him no harm, and as it washed over him, driving away the darkness, he closed his eyes to revel in it.

The first thing he noticed was that he could breathe. The tightness, triggered initially by the book-induced memory and later by the Dread Doctor's electrocution, that had settled permanently in his chest, had finally loosened. He breathed slow and steady, relieved to be able to draw air deep into his lungs. The second thing he noticed was the warmth, peaceful and comforting, enveloping him in its embrace. He didn't hurt. There was no fear or stress or worry. He felt safe, calm and without care.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found that he was in the reserve, looking up at the sky through the treetops. It was a beautiful fall day. The leaves were full of color, more vibrant than he'd ever seen. He was laying in a bed of them, pillowed from the hard dirt by their delicate fronds. The sun, streaming in through the breaks in the canopy, lovingly caressed his face, pulling a smile to his lips.

As he lay there, content and at peace, he vaguely became aware of her. It was as if she'd just appeared, but in truth, she'd been there the entire time. As she laid her head on his shoulder, pressing against his side, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. Her hair brushed against his face, and he turned to bury his nose in it, inhaling her scent.

Allison.

Scene Break

Mason groaned as he slowly came to, disoriented and alone, his head throbbing painfully from where he lay on the floor. For a moment, he was confused, unsure of where he was or why he was there, unsure of what had happened. Then it all came rushing back. Hayden's death, Liam's attack on Scott, Theo shoving him aside, causing his head to bounce violently off the library table.

Another groan as he forced himself up to his hands and knees, before turning and almost toppling onto his ass. The slight movement intensified the throbbing in his head and brought with it a bout of nausea that had him fighting not to throw up. He sat there for a moment, head in his hands, just breathing, willing the pain to go away and for his stomach to settle. It was when he finally looked up, ready to try and move, ready to go find the others, that he noticed the body on the stairs.

All other thoughts and concerns vanished as his mind went blank, his heart hammering in his chest, as he stared at the prone figure. "Scott," he whispered, his gut twisting at the realization, even as he prayed that he was wrong.

Crawling as quickly as he could over to the older boy, Mason took in the sight of him. His face was still battered and bloodied, but that had been from Liam. Scott had been fine after Liam, or if not fine, then at least—not this bad off. It had to have been Theo. Not that it mattered, not right now. What mattered right now was the deep gaping wound that was Scott's chest. What mattered right now was how eerily still he lay there.

"It's not that bad," Mason whispered, trying to squash down his panic. Scott was a werewolf, an alpha werewolf at that. It was possible he could heal. "Please don't be that bad," he pleaded, before checking for a pulse. When he couldn't find one, he placed his cheek next to Scott's mouth. He waited for a puff of air to hit his face. He felt nothing. He watched for his chest to rise or fall. It didn't.

"Ok," he whispered again, wiping his hands on his jeans nervously, as he leaned back. "You can do this." Climbing to his feet, he reached down and gently took hold of Scott by the shoulders and slid him down the stairs.

"Sorry," Mason apologized, wincing as the older boy bounced jarringly down each step. Once he had Scott laying flat on the floor, he circled back around to the side and kneeled overtop of him. "Alright, you can do this," he told himself as he placed one hand on top of the other and laced his fingers together. He set the heel of his lower hand in the center of Scott's chest, right between where he knew the nipples to be, closed his eyes, and took a breath.

"I can do this," he assured himself. "We can do this," he added pointedly to Scott, before starting chest compressions.

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"Are you scenting me?" she teased, as she rocked against him, squeezing him slightly with the arm she'd draped across his chest.

"Sorry," he laughed, as he pulled back, grateful that she couldn't see the blush that warmed his cheeks. "You weren't supposed to notice that."

Shifting positions, she propped herself up on her elbow so she could smile down at him. The tenderness, the love, he saw reflected there pulled at his heart, awaking a deep, almost painful, yearning and profound sense of loss. His chest ached as it settled around him, heavy and cold, a familiar blackness, a burden, a scar, that they'd never be rid of.

"What do I smell like?" she asked, pulling him out of his spiral, pulling his mind back to her, but failing to completely close the wound.

The warmth in his cheeks returned, intensifying as it burned up to the tips of his ears. "I don't know," he said, turning away in embarrassment.

"Come on," she nettled lightheartedly, "tell me."

"It's hard to explain," he answered honestly. "I mean, there's obviously scents that I associate with you. Like the smell of your shampoo, or body wash, and laundry detergent-"

"Sooooo, soap. You're saying I smell like an accumulation of soap."

"Well, yeah," he laughed, "but beneath that there's something that is uniquely you. Something, that's just— Allison."

"Just Allison?" she asked, smiling down at him once again.

"Just Allison," he confirmed, reaching up to brush his thumb along her cheek before pulling her down so he could kiss her.

The kiss was long and deep, conveying all of the emotions that they couldn't otherwise express, reviving all of the memories that had not long been buried. The strength of it, the strength of their love, battled against the blackness that lurked within them, always poised to take control. Strong as it was, however, it could not drive the darkness from them. It could not heal the scars that marred their hearts.

When she finally broke the kiss, pulling back just so far as to rest her forehead against his, he whispered, "I've missed you so much."

She smiled, an expression that he couldn't really see or feel from where she rested against him, but he still knew. "I've missed you too," she told him, kissing him chastely, before pulling away. Her scent withdrew with her, reopening the chasm inside him. "I wish you could stay."

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Mason pressed down hard with the heel of his hand on Scott's chest, causing foamy, bright-red blood to pour out of the gaping hole just below the older boy's sternum. "Oh, god," he whispered, frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

Scott didn't have a pulse. No pulse meant no heartbeat. No heartbeat meant— no heartbeat meant he was dead, or would be soon, at least without help. The only way Mason knew to help was with CPR, but if the compressions caused him to lose more blood—.

He pushed again, watching as the frothy fluid flowed once more from the wound. There was no denying that the compressions were going to cause Scott to bleed more. The question was whether he was bleeding too much, whether the added loss from the CPR might actually cause him to bleed out. The wound was deep and ugly, but as mangled as it was, there didn't seem to be a lot of blood. It wasn't gushing from Scott's chest or pooling in large quantities on the floor. It looked as if he could stand to lose a little more, that it was worth the risk, especially if it meant keeping his heart beating.

Taking a deep breath, Mason readjusted his hands and restarted compressions.

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Mason did compressions until his arms burned with fatigue and his knees throbbed from where he knelt on the hard floor. He'd stopped every few minutes to check for a pulse, for any sign of life, but he never found one. Scott remained as still and as lifeless as when Mason had first found him. Eventually, when he could no longer maintain the rhyme, when his compressions became so weak that they were no longer effective, when it became evident that Scott was not coming back, he stopped.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, just staring. Staring at the blood that had stopped seeping, slowly and steadily, from the horrendous hole in Scott's chest. The same blood that stained his hands and jeans, and the cuffs of his shirt, dark red. Staring at the lifeless face of a friend. Then, as the world faded from focus, as tears rolled down his cheeks, he stared at nothing at all.

He just stared and stared, until Melissa's voice, loud and frantic, pulled him back to himself.

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"I want to stay," he told her, as he pushed himself up to sit next to her, the roughness of the tree stump biting into his palms.

"I know," she assured him, as she reached out and took his hand. The harsh light of the fluorescents reflecting off the cold white walls, made her already pale skin seem almost translucent against the deep brown of the wood. "But She still needs you."

Scott looked down at the stump on which they sat. The sight of Her, the sight of it, deepened the ache in his chest, until the scar within burned anew. "It won't let me go." It was a statement of fact, not a question. They had sacrificed themselves to Her, and as a result a piece of them would always belong to Her, would always be Hers to command.

"Not yet," Allison confirmed, "but She isn't the only one clinging to you."

The burn in his chest grew as he remembered them: Stiles and his mother, Lydia and Liam, Malia, Derek, and the others. The loss of his pack cut deep, like pieces of himself had been ripped away, each leaving in their wake a permanent open wound. Subconsciously, his hand moved to his bicep and he rubbed at the ink that had been seared into his arm.

"I've lost them," he told her, as the pain grew almost unbearable, his chest tightening, making it hard to breathe. "I've lost them all."

"Not lost," she assured him, squeezing his hand lightly, the ghost of a touch, "just misplaced."

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"Scott!" Melissa called as she raced into the library, her heart pounding in fear of what she was going to find.

Liam had worried her when he'd returned, frantic with grief and guilt, covered in blood, and completely alone.

When she'd asked him what had happened, when she'd asked about Scott and Mason, he'd confessed. He'd confessed to her what he'd done. Through his tears and grief and guilt, as he'd cradled Hayden's body, he'd told her what he'd tried to do.

He'd also assured her that he'd failed, that Scott was alive; bloodied and battered, slashed and bruised, but still alive.

Despite the assurance, she couldn't quell the fear that had overcome her, that had seized her heart and whispered in her ear that something wasn't right, that Scott wasn't ok. So she'd grabbed her keys and drove to the high school faster than she'd ever driven in her life.

"Scott!" she called again when she saw him, lying prone and still on the floor, his face pale and lifeless. "No, no, no, no, no, no."

As she dropped to her knees, she cast a pleading look to Mason, asking him how and why, begging for answers that he probably didn't have. Questions, she reminded herself that didn't matter, at least not right now. "Ok," she whispered as she leaned over him and placed her hands on his chest. "Ok."

"What are you doing?" Mason asked as she started compressions, his voice soft with loss and despair. "What are you doing?"

"Bringing him back," Melissa asserted as she breathed for him.

"Melissa- his heart- he," Mason stammered as he rang his bloody hands together. "He hasn't had a pulse in over 15 minutes. You can't bring someone back that's-"

"He's not someone," she told him harshly. "He's my son and he's an alpha and he's too strong to die like this." She was practically yelling now, yelling at Mason, at Liam, at herself, at Scott. He wasn't going to leave her like this, not like this. "Come on," she pleaded, "open your eyes and look at me." Her voice was almost a whisper now. "Ok. Come on. Breathe baby breathe."

"Melissa it's-"

"Shut up!" she snapped, as she kept pumping, barely holding back the tears, terrified that he'd truly slipped from her this time. "He's too strong to die like this," she told Mason, before turning on her son. "Come on. You can do this," she whispered, "you're an alpha."

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"What if I can't- get them back?" Scott asked through shallow breaths, hating how desperate he sounded, hating how isolated he felt. "I can't do this alone."

Allison squeezed his hand once more. "You're never alone," she asserted, her firm tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm here," she told him as she placed her hand against his battered chest, the cold phantom touch almost agonizingly painful, "and She's here."

Scott looked down at the enormous stump of the Nemeton. He could feel the power churning within it, a strength that ran deep into its roots. She offered it to him freely. Her strength to heal his battered body and his abused lungs, to heal his ripped and torn heart. Her power to fight against Her enemies, to protect Her from harm. All he had to do was take it. It seemed simple, easy.

Except- there were some wounds that were not of his flesh. There were some battles that couldn't be won by waging war. His pack would not be restored through the sheer force of the Nemeton.

"I don't- I don't even know where to start," he admitted, ashamed at how easily they had all been ripped from him, that he hadn't been able to stop it.

"Start by letting them know that you're still here," Allison offered as she took a step back, seeming to fade right before his eyes.

The pain in his chest was almost unbearable now, every breath agonizingly painful. "I still love you," he confessed to her, "I always will."

She smiled at his words, her expression sad and wishful, before leaning in and kissing him. The cold touch of her lips against his was both deep and longing, yet somehow chaste and sweet. "I will wait for you," she told him, echoing back the promise he'd made to her what seemed a lifetime ago.

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"You're an alpha," Melissa asserted, refusing to give up, refusing to acknowledge that he could actually be gone. "Come on, Scott, roar."

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"It's ok," Allison whispered, as she pulled away, fading into the cold black emptiness as it washed over them. "Let them know you're here."

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"Come on!"

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Scott nodded, unable to stop the tears that streamed down his face, as he watched her go. He stood there for a moment, lost in his pain, lost in his grief. Not just for Allison, but for all of them, for everyone and everything that had been taken away.

He was being given a second chance now, a chance to get it all back. He would not squander it. He would not let it go to waste.

Closing his eyes, Scott took a deep painful breath, drawing on the spark that made him a true alpha, on the power of the Nemeton.

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"Come on, Scott, roar!" she yelled as she slammed her hands down on his chest in desperation.

Scene Break

The roar that poured from his lips was deep and powerful. Filled with the strength of an alpha and imbued with the power of the Nemeton, it ignited the spark within him. His body, ripped and torn beyond repair, healed. Not completely, but enough, enough to bring him crashing back to the hard floor of the library.

The next sound to escape his lips was not one of power. The sob, weakened by his shallow and sloppy breaths, was choked and broken, filled with defeat and both mental and physical anguish.

"It's ok, Sweetheart," his mother soothed, pulling him into her arms and cradling him against her chest as he cried. "I've got you."