01

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, Scott forced himself to keep going, to ignore his body's demands for rest, for a chance to heal. The time for that would come eventually, but for now, he had to stay up, keep moving, make sure his friends were okay, make sure they got the help they needed.

Limping forward, he slowly made his way to the center of the clearing, where the pack had gathered after their retreat. Liam and Corey were laid out next to each other in the grass, the worst of the injured, both of them bloody and unconscious. Mason was standing near them, the only one to escape injury, forced to stay with the cars while everybody else had gone deeper into the woods to fight. He was pacing back and forth between his best friend and his boyfriend, the concern pouring from him in waves. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Scott tried to offer as much sympathy, as much comfort as he could with a look, a touch, his heart breaking a little at the pain and fear on his face.

"Stay with Liam for now," he said softly, knowing his Beta, as beat up as he was, was the stronger of the two. "We're gonna get Corey taken care of first, okay? I'll be back for Liam in a second."

Mason nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah, um…" He sniffled quietly. "Okay, I'll—yeah." His voice sounded hollow, but he didn't hesitate, turning toward his fallen friend and kneeling next to him, grasping for his hand.

Shutting his eyes, Scott took a second to steady himself, then focused on Corey, whose face had gone ominously pale as he struggled to breathe. The wound on his neck was ugly, gaping and ragged, the blood staining his torn shirt and chest dark red, almost black in the dimly-lit night. Grimacing, he knelt and gently slid his arms under the unconscious teen. Slowly, carefully, he lifted him, trying not to jostle him, trying not to cause him any further pain. Step by step, he carried him over to the rear of Argent's SUV, where Lydia was sitting, head in her hands, red hair hanging down over her face like a curtain.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he gently lowered his cargo down into the back of the car. For a second, she didn't answer, and he immediately turned worried eyes on her, looking her over to make sure she wasn't dealing with some awful wound he'd somehow overlooked. "Lydia? Are you hurt?"

Slowly, her head came up, revealing blood-shot eyes, glistening with the tears she'd unwillingly shed. "I'll live. More shaken up than anything else." Her voice was raspy, hoarse, strained by her efforts in the fight. Blinking rapidly, she sniffed softly, and turned to look down at Corey. "Is anybody...?"

The unsaid word hung heavy in the air between them, and he had to take a moment to gather himself before he could answer.

"No... I don't know..." He trailed off and looked over to her car, where Argent was helping a wounded and only semi-conscious Parrish lie down on the back seat. "I think we're all okay. Everybody's breathing, at least. I—Liam's hurt pretty bad."

"But he'll heal," she said softly, eyes unfocused as she stared off into the night.

"Yeah, he'll heal."

"They'll all heal." A beat. "Scott, we should have known." This time, when she looked at him, there was more awareness in her eyes, more of her usual focused self. "We should have known he'd be back. We should have known he was behind it all."

Clenching his teeth, he had to bite back the urge to growl.

Ever since the Wild Hunt, Beacon Hills had been inundated by a wave of strange supernatural vandalism. A month of random attacks by unfamiliar shifters, scaring regular people and damaging local businesses, had left the pack and the police baffled. They'd seem unconnected, with no real motivation behind any of them. Every night, it was something else, a never-ending string of menace-tinged annoyances, leaving everybody on edge and angry. No deaths, just perpetual mischief. The working theory was another pack had come to town, drawn in by the Nemeton, or maybe the residual energies from the Hunt, and were just trying to cause trouble, rather than seek out a direct confrontation.

With the frustration building, Scott had finally decided to try and end things. He'd led his friends into the preserve, the only place around big enough for a pack to hide in, intent on forcing the intruders out of his home before they could do more damage, or escalate things.

Immediately, things had gone sideways. They'd gone in expecting to find maybe half a dozen shifters, and instead walked into the middle of a small army. What should have been a quick tussle with an enemy that hadn't shown any real planning or skill so far had turned into a drawn-out battle that had them all spread out, isolated and fighting for their lives. They'd been overwhelmed by how many opponents there were, only their cohesiveness as a pack allowing them to ultimately regroup and withdraw without suffering any fatalities.

That was when he'd revealed himself, smirking and speechifying as they gathered their wounded and retreated. Laughing at their pain, claiming this was just the beginning, that they'd fallen right into his trap.

Gerard. Back once again to make their lives miserable, to get revenge, or whatever it was he was after this time. And none of them had seen it coming. After everything with the Beast and the Dread Doctors, he'd dropped off the radar, disappearing so completely even Argent couldn't find him. The assumption had been he was off somewhere, plotting against them, but it was hard to stay worried about someone who wasn't around, no matter how dangerous they were. Especially when there were other major threats to focus on. He became an afterthought, just another old enemy they didn't have to think about.

He was back now, with some kind of plan, an army to do his bidding, and a win under his belt.

"How could we?" Scott grated out, the memory of the old man's mocking grin leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Never in his life had he wanted to hurt someone more, to inflict pain. To kill. "How could we have known? He played us."

They descended into silence then as they watched Argent approach Theo, who was sitting next to a tree, arms around his knees and head down, a bloody mess. As the two spoke softly, Scott let out a shuddering breath and tried to keep his expression from cracking. He'd led them all out here tonight. It had been his call, his decision, and now his friends, his allies were beaten and battered, maybe worse. He was always aware of the risk, no matter who they were fighting, what was happening, but actually seeing everybody so hurt, so beaten down at once really drove home just how wrong things had gone this time.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply a few times, trying not to think about how close he was to breaking down, then turned back to Lydia. "Are you okay to drive?"

"Yeah, I think so. The clinic?"

"Yeah. We can't really bring any of them to the hospital. If you want to take your car, I'll send Mason with you, okay? The two of you can help Deaton get ready for everybody else."

She nodded as she slid to the ground, then reached for him. "It's going to be okay, Scott." Taking his hand in hers, she squeezed, eyes boring into his, and he could see the concern there. Not just for their injured friends, but for him. His state of mind. "Everyone's going to be fine, all right? Just don't… we're okay. We're okay."

Not trusting his voice to remain steady, he nodded jerkily, lips set in tight line. One more gentle squeeze of his hand and a sad smile, and she was gone, heading for her car.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he turned and started back toward where he'd left Liam, only to pause when he saw Malia had already stepped in to help. Blood was seeping from the jagged gash above her right eye as she bodied him, barely-conscious and groaning in pain, toward the SUV. His arm was thrown over her shoulder, hers around his back as she took his weight upon herself, Mason hovering anxiously behind them. His jaw clenched at the way she limped, just one more injury he couldn't help but feel responsible for.

When she stumbled slightly, he jumped forward, turning and taking her burden on himself. "I've got him," he muttered, hunching slightly to avoid putting any pressure on Liam's wounds. She just nodded and kept step beside him as he carried their friend over to the SUV.

Together, the two of them lifted him and set him down next to Corey. By the light in the car, it painted a clearer picture of his injuries, the horrific slash across his chest almost seeming to breathe as he did, torn flesh fluttering slightly as the blood sluggishly pumped out of him. If he'd been human, he would have already been dead.

"Mason, I want you to ride with Lydia. She and Parrish need to get to the clinic."

"But I want to—"

"Mason!" Regret immediately set in, as he winced at how harsh his own voice sounded. The last thing he wanted to do was snap at anybody. They didn't deserve it, didn't need his anger right now. But it was hard to keep everything calm, level with how ragged he felt at the moment. He was so close to the edge, to completely losing it, and he wasn't sure yet if it was going to be an explosion, or if he was just going to collapse in on himself. "Liam and Corey will be right behind you," he said a second later, softer, gentler this time. "I need you to help Lydia and Deaton get ready to help them, okay? Can you do that?"

"Yeah, okay." His voice was subdued, but unwavering. "I can do that."

As Mason walked over to Lydia's car, where she was waiting behind the wheel, Scott stepped back and reached up to grab the open door with both hands. Leaning against it, he looked down at his two fallen friends, forcing himself to take in their suffering, a vision he knew would stick with him for a very long time. The sound of the car slowly pulling out of the clearing faded into the background as he stared at their wounds, their blood, and felt his eyes burn as his control started to slip.

"This is my fault." The words came out quiet, barely a whisper, but thick with the emotion he was trying so hard to keep restrained.

"It's not your fault." Malia's voice wasn't especially loud, but conviction dripped from every word. "Don't blame yourself, Scott. You didn't do this."

"But I did. It was my decision, my choice. I brought us all here. I—" His voice cracked, and he had to stop, bite back the urge to just start screaming. "I'm responsible for everything that happened here. All of it."

"Scott. You did not do this. You didn't order us to come. We all chose to be here." When he didn't respond, unable to look away from macabre sight before him, she let out a low growl and slapped his arm, hard. Jarred out of his trance, he turned toward her, eyes wide, found her staring back intently. "Don't do this to yourself, all right? This was a fight. Bad things can happen in a fight. Gerard tricked us, and we got knocked down, but nobody's dead, so don't be stupid." Her tone was harsh, her words blunt, but her expression was earnest, and the grip she had on his arm was soft, a reminder rather than a rebuke. "We'll regroup and we'll come up with a plan, a good plan. We always do. You always do."

Looking into her eyes, it was all he could do to keep it together. Right at that moment, with the way he was feeling, he just couldn't find it in himself to believe he deserved that kind of loyalty. But he could see it in her, right there in front of him. She trusted him still, despite where he'd led her, led all their friends. And she was ready to follow him wherever he went next, without hesitation. It was humbling, and more than a little scary, and in his current mind-set, he didn't know how to react. Frozen, he stared into her wide eyes, overwhelmed by what he was seeing there.

"She's right." Argent's voice cut through the night and the moment like a knife, drawing their attention to the older man as he stepped towards them. He was just as bloody and bruised as everybody else, but his back was straight, his shoulders unbowed. "Now's not the time to start doubting your decisions. You made the call you thought you had to, and we backed you. It didn't go our way this time, but that doesn't make it the wrong call. There'll be time to go over everything later. For now, be strong, be a leader, and let's get your pack where they need to be."

In terms of making him feel better, the speech didn't do much. To be fair, he didn't think there was anything that could really make a dent in his guilt, not while they were still surrounded by his wounded friends, could smell their blood on the air. But it did drive home one thing. He was the leader, the Alpha. Self-pity wasn't going to help anybody, not right now. He needed to be strong, to keep it together, not for his own sake, but for his friends, his pack, the people he cared about.

For them, for now, he could do it.

"Okay, yeah. You're right." Stepping back, he closed the door, harder than he needed to. Then he turned back to face Malia and Argent, both of whom were watching him closely, and focused on her. "Can you ride with him to the clinic?" There wasn't room for both of them in the SUV, and she couldn't drive his bike.

"No." The denial was instantaneous, said in a tone that made it seem like the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm staying with you."

Sighing wearily, he ran a hand through his hair, grimacing when it came away covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. "Please, Malia. I need somebody strong riding with them. I don't know what's coming next. Gerard being involved… it could be anything. If he tries something, I want a fighter around, okay? No offense," he quickly tacked on for Argent's benefit. "I didn't mean you aren't—"

Argent cut him off, raising both hands as a wry smile flashed across his face. "None taken. But for the record, I don't think he'll attack tonight. My father isn't stupid. Now that he's shown himself, he'll want to let us sit with it for awhile."

"Mess with our heads, you mean." A nod, and he sighed. "Right. Still…"

"I'll go with them." Turning at the voice, he watched as Theo slowly made his way toward them. His hair was stained red with blood, and his gait was uneven, but otherwise he seemed okay. When he reached them, he paused and smiled humourlessly. "I think I should probably get checked out anyway."

Scott hesitated for a second, eyes briefly flickering toward Malia. Her face was set, and she arched an eyebrow when they locked eyes, almost daring him to try and get her to change her mind. That wasn't a fight he was interested in taking up, not right now. Another quick look at Argent drew an almost imperceptible shrug. With no protest offered, and no other options, he had no choice but to accept.

"Okay. Be careful, and keep your eyes open." It was as much as warning for Argent as it was for Theo, and they all knew it. "Get going."

Argent immediately moved around the side of his car, as Theo climbed into the passenger seat. The sound of the engine starting split the night air a second later, echoing off all the trees and rocks around them. Standing there, Malia at his side, Scott watched as the SUV started down the narrow dirt path back to the road, moving slowly to avoid bouncing and jostling the injured passengers too badly. The red glow from the tail-lights gradually faded as they moved farther and farther away, until they finally disappeared from view, leaving the clearing dark, silent, still.

"They'll be okay." Malia's quiet words were accompanied by the comforting feeling of her hand finding his, grasping it gently. "We'll all be okay. We're tough."

Looking at her, he smiled, his first genuine smile in hours. "You're right," he said, intertwining his fingers with hers. "We are tough." Taking a deep breath, he blew it out slowly, then gave her hand a squeeze. "Come on. I don't want to leave them on their own too long."

Now, with his friends on their way to safety, to the healing expertise of Deaton, the adrenaline Scott had been running on since the fight started to recede. As the two of them started toward his bike, he became more and more aware of the various aches and pains he'd racked up in the last few hours. There was a sharp pain in his right knee, like an electric shock shooting up his leg with every step. He could feel the dried blood crusting on his skin from the countless little wounds inflicted by nearly a dozen different sets of claws. The worst was a jagged slash on his stomach that hadn't gone very deep, but had torn through his shirt and flayed open his skin. The ripped fabric brushed against it with every step, stinging and burning, rubbing the ragged flesh raw.

Next to him, Malia wasn't much better off. Like him, she hadn't suffered any major injuries, but the minor ones were countless. She was covered in blood, and looked about as exhausted as he felt. But the hold she had on his hand was strong, and he knew without a doubt she'd be ready for another fight if Gerard tried anything else.

Throwing a leg over his bike, he kick-started it, breaking the silence with the roar of the engine. He felt it shift under him as she climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He almost smiled when he felt her hands hesitate a second over his stomach before she tightened her grip, making sure she wasn't about to press against any major injuries. Once she was ready, he set off, following the same path the others had taken out to the road. He kept his eyes peeled as they rode along the dirt trail, keeping a watch for any glowing eyes in the dark, any sign of the enemy.

When they reached paved road, started toward the city, Scott did his best to stop thinking about the night so far, what had happened, what it meant. Everything that was dragging him down. Instead, he tried to focus on other things, like the earthy scent of the woods around him, the feeling of the cool night air on his face, the warmth of Malia, pressed up against his back. The physical, to keep the emotional at bay for a little while longer. Even though he knew that was a losing battle, he had to make an attempt. The night was far from over, there were still things that needed to be done, discussed. It wouldn't do anyone any good to let himself sink into that dark pit right now.

Later, once everybody was taken care of, he could let himself feel that, let himself go. But not now, not yet.

Still, it was hard not to worry about his pack, about what horror scene might be waiting for him at the animal clinic. As bad as some of their wounds were, they hadn't looked fatal, especially to anyone with a supernatural healing factor. But he'd heard too many horror stories from his mom about how quickly things could change with bad injuries, how complications could arise without warning. Until he saw them again, knew they were okay, he couldn't keep his mind from envisioning a million different awful scenarios.

Reacting to the tension in him, Malia tightened the grip she had on his waist and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. There were no words, nothing she could say to ease his mind, but he appreciated the effort, the physical contact, a reminder that she was there with him, that he wasn't alone.

It wasn't much, but in that moment, it meant so much. It meant everything.

As the lights of the city appeared in the distance, he felt himself filled with a grim resolve. It didn't matter that they'd lost tonight. It didn't matter that he was sore, tired, afraid. She was still with him. His pack, his friends, as injured as they were, were all still with him. He couldn't control what Gerard did, couldn't know what he was planning. All he could do was take care of his own, be ready for whatever came next. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

It was almost unnerving how quiet his house was, how dark, a sharp contrast to the rest of Scott's night. After the fight, the flight, all the time spent at the clinic dealing with his injured friends, hearing their cries, trying to figure out what was going on, what to do next, it felt like stepping into a different world. A surreal world, one that almost seemed too peaceful, impossibly still after the violence, the chaos of the night. Strange, off-putting, but welcome.

For the first time in hours, it felt like he could relax, finally catch his breath. Involuntarily, he took a step toward the living room, toward the couch, everything in him screaming out for rest, for relief from his thoughts, memories. All he wanted to do was collapse and pass out, dead to the world for a few hours.

"No." Before he could move any farther, hands grasped his waist, stopped him dead. Malia. "Upstairs, Scott. You need to clean up. You're covered in blood."

As much as he wanted to rest, as gone as he was, he was still together enough to recognise the wisdom in her words. The battle and what followed had left him, left them both streaked with blood, some their own, most from their friends. If he gave in to his exhaustion now, passed out without washing it off, he'd regret it in the morning. With that in mind, he didn't resist as she gently turned him toward the stairs and guided him forward. His legs felt heavy, leaden, but with her sticking close behind him, he made it up and into his room, heading directly into the bathroom, with only a single look of longing for his big, comfortable bed on the way by.

When she flicked the light on, the sudden brightness had him blinking, trying to clear his vision. He leaned against the sink, ducked his head for a moment, and when he looked up, he found a horror movie victim looking back at him. A face, covered in a mask of blood. It took a second for his mind to make the connection, to realise he was looking into his mirror.

"Jesus," he breathed, his first word since they'd left the clinic.

"It'll wash off." He watched Malia in the mirror as she came up from behind, settled in next to him, and slid an arm around his waist. "You okay?"

The smile he tried to form felt more like a grimace, but it was the best he could do. "I'm good. I think—" He let out a shuddering breath, felt the emotion he'd been repressing starting to rise, but tried to power through. "I'm okay. I'm—"

His words cut off abruptly, his head dipping again, as it all suddenly hit him. Everything he'd been holding back, desperately trying to keep from breaking free all night. Everything he was trying not to feel. The fear. The rage. The guilt. The wall he'd built up by clinging to his need to be strong was washed away in an instant, a tidal wave of emotion crashing over his soul with enough force it almost drove him to his knees. Only the white-knuckle grip he had on the sink kept him up, eyes burning as he took rapid, shallow breaths, tried to keep from throwing up everything in his stomach.

There was no regaining control, no more shoving everything back down deep for later. Later was now, and he was feeling everything he'd refused to earlier. There was nothing to do now but ride it out, no choice but to feel it all.

Through it all, he was aware of Malia's hand on his back, gently rubbing. She hadn't strayed far all night, was always close, always touching him, and he was grateful for it. He was sure he would have broken down hours ago if she wasn't there, keeping him grounded, quietly supporting. When he'd walked into the clinic, saw his friends, almost lost it, rage and a desire for vengeance nearly overwhelming him, it was her who'd grabbed him, held him until sanity returned.

Over the loud rushing sound in his ears, her heard her voice, soft, repeating. "It's okay. You're okay. I've got you."

Again and again, over and over, a mantra he latched onto, something welcome to focus on as things slowly began to calm. Like a light, something guiding the way, he followed it out of the dark, back to reality.

He wasn't sure how long it took, how long they stood there, but eventually, his breathing started to slow, the urge to be sick faded. All the guilt, the anger, all the negative feelings were still there, still lurking in his mind, pointing fingers, causing pain, but the physical reaction to it gradually lessened, passed. In its wake, it left him even more drained and exhausted than he had been, his body on the verge of collapse. He was sure there'd be nightmares of the things he'd seen, the gruesome injuries, how closed he'd come to losing people tonight. There was no escaping that. But for now, he could hold it together, could function again.

Spitting to get the bitter taste out of his mouth, he waited another second to make sure he was ready, then straightened up. Running a hand through his hair, he took a few steadying breaths before his eyes found Malia's in the mirror. His vision was blurry, his eyes watery, but he could see the concern clearly on her face.

"Sorry," he rasped, cheeks warming as he looked off to his left, away from her. "That was… I'm sorry you had to see that."

He was embarrassed. Breaking down like that, losing it so visibly, was not something he wanted anyone to see. He was supposed to be strong, supposed to be the one who could hold it all together no matter what. Not the one who shook and trembled and cried. He was supposed to be the one who kept everybody else calm, kept them all together. Not the one who let his own emotions bring him to his knees, needed somebody else to hold him, comfort him, help him through things.

"I'm not. Look at me. Scott, look at me." He'd been fighting so hard to avoid that, but there was something in her voice that broke through. He swallowed heavily as he slowly turned to face her. "You're human. You're allowed to feel things. You don't… you don't have anything to prove. I know how strong you are, and this doesn't take anything away from that. Tonight was… tonight was tough. It's gonna take us all some time to process. You don't have to…" She paused, jaw clenched tight, like she was fighting not to say something. "I know you. I know you're taking all that, everything that happened, and putting it on yourself. I wish you wouldn't, but I know you are."

"It was my fault," he muttered, slamming his eyes shut as he felt the bile rising in his throat again. "My fault."

"It wasn't." She said it so vehemently, so emphatically, he couldn't help but open his eyes again, found her looking back, intensity radiating from her like the sun. "This isn't on you. It was Gerard's fault. Don't blame anyone but him. Don't—" Her own eyes closed then, and he could see how hard she was working not to lose it herself, biting back her own anger, her own frustration. "I know I can't convince you," she continued a second later, softer, "because I know you. So I'm just glad I can be here for you when you need me." Her hand came up, gently brushed against his cheek. "You don't have to hide anything, Scott. Not in front of me. Not ever."

For a moment, they were both frozen, just looking at each other. For the second time that night, he felt overwhelmed by what he could see on her face, her expression, burning in her eyes. The loyalty. The understanding. The compassion. The love.

In the next instant, they were hugging, neither holding back. He wasn't sure who made the first move, who pulled the other in first, but it didn't really matter. All that mattered was he was being held tighter than he'd ever been held before, and it was exactly what he needed. A moment, a minute to just put everything else aside and pretend it was all going to be okay. To let himself feel and let somebody else be the strong one, be there for him. It was something he hadn't felt in so long, that kind of embrace, because nobody else could give it to him. Nobody else was strong enough, or understood why it was so hard for him to let himself go like this. But she did.

So he held on tight and let himself go.

If he'd had his way, he would have been content to stand there, with her, the rest of the night. But reality could only be pushed aside for so long. He was still tired, sore, and covered in blood. He needed rest, needed to get off his feet before his legs gave out on him. Even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he had to let her go.

"Thank you," he murmured, dragging the embrace out just a little longer. "Thanks for… for being here."

"Always." Her voice was hoarse, full of emotion, but when she pulled back a second later, there was the hint of a smile on her face. "Now go shower. You stink."

He let out an amused huff, and stepped back, reluctantly backing away from her. For a brief second, neither of them moved to turn away from each other, and he fiddled with the lowest button on his shirt, unsure of what to say. As good as a shower sounded, as much as he needed one, he wasn't ready for her to leave yet.

"I, uh… are you gonna—"

"I'll be here." He was sure his relief showed on his face, but couldn't bring himself to care as she shifted from foot to foot, cleared her throat. "I mean, I'll be in your room. I'm gonna call Peter, let him know to watch out. I'll just be…" She jerked her thumb toward the door. "I'll be here when you're done."

Not trusting himself to speak, Scott just nodded. His eyes never strayed from her as she left the room, locked on her until she closed the door with a quiet click.

The next few minutes seemed to stretch on unbearably long as he stripped and jumped in the shower. The urge to hurry it up, get back out to her was strong, but he choked it back. This was important, needed to be taken care off. Everything else could wait. He forced himself to take it slow, carefully checking over his wounds, making sure none were worse than he'd assumed. Most were already starting to heal, some further along than others, and none were actively bleeding anymore. By morning, experience told him almost all of them would be gone, healed while he slept. Physically, he'd be whole.

Mentally, he still wasn't sure.

A knock on the door briefly interrupted his self-exam. When he heard the door crack open, he peeked around the curtain, found Malia standing in the doorway, something clasped in her arms.

"Clean clothes," she said, holding them up, and he smiled gratefully. "I'll leave them on the sink."

Once she left, he went back to cleaning up, the desire to be clean finally overpowering everything else. Standing under the scalding water, he scrubbed at the dried blood, watched as it was washed away, red swirls twisting down the drain. He scrubbed until he was sure it was all gone, until there was no more blood left to wash away. Only then did he kill the spray, when it started to hurt, his skin almost rubbed raw.

When he stepped out into his room a few moments later, wearing the sweatpants she'd brought him, he found Malia standing at the end of his bed. She caught his eye as he tossed his towel in the laundry basket, and arched an eyebrow as he joined her.

"Feel better?"

"A bit." He grinned sheepishly, shifted nervously, unsure of what to say now that they were face to face again. After the moment they'd had, the comfort she'd provided, he wasn't quite sure where they stood. "I, uh, I'm not covered in blood anymore at least. That's something, right?"

She hummed softly. "Yeah. I guess you probably want to get some sleep now, huh?"

"Not the worst idea I've ever heard."

"Okay. Good. Me too. I'll, um…" She stuck her hands in her back pockets, swallowed. "I guess I'll head home. I'll keep my phone on. If you need anything, just call, all right?" He nodded wordlessly, not sure he could speak around the lump in his throat, unable to look away from her. He didn't want her to leave, but he wasn't sure what to say, how to communicate it to her. "Okay. Good night."

Half a second was all he lasted as she started to turn away. She didn't even get all the way around before he reached out, caught her arm, stopped her in place. Eyebrow raised, she turned back toward him, questioning.

"Stay." The word came out as the quietest whisper, barely audible, and he cleared his throat and tried again. "Will you stay here?"

She was silent for a moment, appraising. Then, "You want me to—"

"I don't want…" He trailed off, eyes locked on hers, his words failing him. He could hear his heart beating like a drum in his chest, could feel it, was suddenly more scared then he could remember being in a long time. "I'm not asking for… this isn't… I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't want either of us to be alone. That's all." His tongue darted out, touched dry lips, and he swallowed heavily. "Stay?"

"Yes. Yeah. I'll stay." There was no hesitation, and he felt his heart swell, relief, gratitude, and a few other emotions he wasn't sure he was ready to think about flooding him. "I should probably shower though."

"Oh, yeah, right." He stepped out of the way, gestured toward the bathroom door. "It's all yours. Just, uh, take whatever you need. Clothes or whatever. Help yourself."

She lingered there for a second, studying him closely, and he never blinked, just let her take her time. It was only when she shot him a soft smile, then turned toward his dresser that the spell was broken.

Grabbing his phone, he stretched out on the bed as she gathered what she needed and disappeared into the other room. As much as he could, he focused on checking his messages, touching base with the rest of the pack, because he didn't want to overthink what was happening here, with her. He didn't know what it all meant, if it meant anything at all. He just knew she made things better, and he wasn't ready for her to not be there. Everything else would sort itself out, one way or another.

Any worries he may have had about awkwardness between them were immediately brushed aside when she returned from the shower. Clad in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sweats that no longer fit him, she never hesitated, rounding the bed and sliding under the covers next to him.

"What?" she asked, when she looked over and saw him grinning at her. "When you said here, you meant here, right? Like, your bed?"

"Yeah, that's what I meant," he replied mildly. "I mean, if you're comfortable with that. I don't—"

"Do I look uncomfortable to you?" She raised an eyebrow, and he couldn't help but chuckle, slowly shaking his head. "Good, 'cause I'm about as far from that as I could be. Now let's get some sleep, all right?"

"Okay." Reaching out, he set his phone aside and turned off his lamp. "Good night, Malia."

"Good night."

In the dark, he barely had time to settle in before she moved, rolling toward him and throwing an arm over his stomach. He froze, but she didn't seem to notice, just cuddled closer, pressed herself tight against his side and laid her head on his shoulder. If it had been anyone else, he would have been surprised. But not with her. She'd never been afraid to touch him. And right now, with his mindset, with all the darkness still roiling around in his mind, waiting for its chance to reassert itself, he was more than happy to accept any physical contact he could get.

"We'll figure it all out, Scott." Her breath was warm against his neck, her voice already drowsy, starting to slur. "We're gonna be okay."

Lying there, surrounded by her, her scent, her warmth, it was impossible not to believe her. It didn't matter what was out there. It didn't matter that Gerard was back, plotting against them, in control of his own personal army of shifters. It didn't matter that he didn't know what was next, had no idea where the next attack would come from, what he was going to do to keep his friends, his family safe. They'd figure it out. They'd be okay.

Pulling her closer, he repeated that comforting thought over and over until it lulled him asleep. They were going to be okay.

AN: Reviews are very much appreciated!